Ancient History Deserves a Helmet
by orchidvines
Summary: Anne Elliot, professional pushover, freelance artist, and closet cynic is about to get her clean slate. If only a certain ex would agree to bury the hatchet. Or y'know, stop being such a douchebag . Persuasion, Modern-day! Rated T for language & completed
1. Dash of Past: Part One

**Anne Elliot **\Ann-Ell-ee-yutt\, _noun_:

1. A severely naïve, bored twenty-something with a failed relationship behind her and a family that takes her for granted

2. _See: _nobody, slight fucktard

"Anne, what are you doing?"

"Nothing," I mutter, instantly closing the Word Document (and the MacBook itself, incidentally). Mary's giving me a condescending look from across the room, and for a moment I kind of see my father's likeness in her sneer. It's kind of a frightening thought.

"Aren't you supposed to be helping me clean up? You do realize that Charlie's parents and sisters will be over soon, right?" She sniffs and perches her hands on her hips. I want to say something really snide and biting, reminding her that I'm only here for company during the summer months (at _her _bidding!) and that she has no right to boss me around (she's the youngest, even, for pity's sake).

Instead I nod, "Yeah, I'll get on that," and make myself useful in the living room picking up her kids' toys. It's not that I'm a pushover; I just think that part of me hates confrontation so much that I'll pretty much do anything to avoid it. And you should really hear my sister's voice when she gets hysterical; I really think it has the capacity to shatter glass. _You _would do anything to steer clear of it too.

"_God_, my back," she moans, hunching over to collect the pairs of shoes from the adjoining foyer. I raise an eyebrow as she limps past, "I think I pinched a nerve the other day, Anne. This is just the whipped cream on top of my headache today, I swear."

Oh, Mary's a hypochondriac, too - Did I mention? In these situations, you pretty much keep quiet so she has no encouragement. I have no idea how her husband stands it.

As if on cue, Charlie himself bursts into the foyer, the three year-old twin terrors latched onto him like baby primates. They're still wearing their karate uniforms. Hunter, copper-haired like his father, is practically swinging from his dad's shirt collar. Danny, dark-haired like Mary (and the rest of our family) is fastened around his shin, barefoot.

"Okay, okay, let _go_ of Daddy, yeah?" he grumbles, and I instantly notice he's toting grocery bags too. I ease the load a bit and he thanks me with a warm, grateful smile. The boys scramble down and shoot towards the opposite end of the house, probably to wreak havoc in the playroom.

"Boys, don't forget to change!" Mary shrieks after them, and turns to her husband. He pecks her on the cheek and we (Charlie and myself) carry the bags to the kitchen counter, my sister trailing behind us.

"That was fast for a dual karate lesson and grocery shopping," I note, sensing that this doting father needs encouragement. God knows Mary doesn't give enough of it. Charlie grins and shakes his head, pausing to wipe the sweat off of his brow.

"Couple years of multi-tasking experience, I s'pose," he laughs, "How have you been, Anne?"

"Good," I reply. _Just writing pseudo-dictionary definitions of myself on the laptop to avoid my sister and put up with lack of internet. _"Just getting settled and all."

"Arrived safely?" he inquires.

"Yeah, it's--"

"Charlie, I specifically asked for _wheat _bagels," Mary crisply interrupts, probing at one of the bags, "You know how your mother likes to watch her figure!"

Charlie shrugs it off, "They were out, and she'll have to make do." He flashes me a smile and I shrug in response.

Charles Musgrove is such an endlessly easy-going guy that sometimes I wonder if one day, his tolerance for my sister's ridiculousness will just run out and the family will fall apart. It's a grim thought, but maybe I'm just too cynical to believe in an enduring amiability in a person. I cast him a sidelong glance to see his arm around Mary, nestling her into a hug. She sighs and gives in, and he plants a kiss on her neck.

_Nah_, I think, _He loves her too much_. Funny thing is, _I _could've been the one married to him. Seriously - we became friends freshman year and he kind of had a thing for me, a _big _thing. We dated for a few months, but the entire set-up was so completely devoid of sparks (at least for me) that I had to end it. We just mesh completely better when we're friends. And besides, the fourth month we were together, I totally sensed that he was interested in Mary. Not that he tried anything, he's so not that type of guy.

Hunter scrambles into the room, stripped of everything but his Buzz Lightyear underwear. He sees me and lights up, having been unaware of my presence when they first walked in. "Annie!" he yelps, snaking his wiry little arms around my waist. I laugh and scoop him up. He's seriously the only person in our family to call me 'Annie'. Even his slightly moody twin settles for 'Aunt Anne'.

Mary disbands herself from her husband and promptly pries her son out of my arms, "Where are the clothes I picked out for you and your brother, Hunter?"

He stares at her like he has no idea what she's talking about. Grunting in irritation, she skulks out of the room with him in search of some lost khakis and miniature collared polos, no doubt.

Charlie and I unload the rest of the groceries in peace (thank God) while he makes pleasant inquiries to how my life is. What can I really tell him, anyway? He's far better off than I am, though we went to the same school - University of the Arts, in Philly, if you must know. He's an incredible graphic designer. He's inching his way up the advertising chain, mainly web-based. Either way, the guy got hired fresh after graduation and he's getting loads of offers though he's employed.

Me? Freelance so far, something my family has _never _supported. But art is my passion, and it has been since I was three and discovered the wonders if smearing my paint-covered fingers all over stark white paper. It's only progressed twenty years since then. I thrived in college, I really did. I just had no idea what the hell I wanted to do. I still don't, despite my definite major, which is why I use the term "Freelance" very loosely. I have no idea where it'll lead me. In September, I'm starting work for a small children's book company for awhile, so that's something. My old classmate found me the job. For now, I'm stuck at Mary's, pining for the wood-floored studio back home (our old sunroom, cleared out), ripped paint-splattered jeans and the smell of kneaded erasers.

"So how's your dad and sister Elizabeth? She still attached at the hip to that Clay girl?" Charlie's voice pulls me out of my own thoughts, and I glance up to find that we've cleared the entire counter already. I grimace. Those three are the last people I'd like to talk about. All incredibly vain and self-absorbed. Actually, Evelyn Clay, Liz's best friend, isn't all that bad. She just has this weird habit of flirting with my Dad, which is just about the creepiest thing because she's in her late twenties and he's gearing up to hit sixty. Um, no.

"They're okay," I shrug, "Liz got a small part in a new pilot for Fox, so my Dad's pretty much eating that up. But I think we both know she's always been his favorite."

Charlie attempts an innocent smile, but he knows it's true. He sighs, "Well, good for her then."

I shrug. Liz's always had her sights on acting. At twenty-eight, she's still pretty much waiting tables and doing commercials here and there. Truth is, Liz is far too much like my Dad - completely and utterly egocentric. She pretty much looks the part of the wannabe actress, too - Long, blonde hair (not natural, of course), baby blues (contacts, yep), skinny. Some people think she's the prettiest of the Elliot girls. Mary's kind of cute, if you ask me. She's a young mother, at twenty-two, but she's adorable as all hell despite her horrible tendency to overreact. She's got this cute button nose, and her eyes crinkle all sweetly when she laughs. If, you know, you happen to actually see her laugh.

But you can bet that Mary and I are cast aside for Liz in my Dad's eye. He's just as vain as she is, that's probably their big bonding point. The man just loves himself too much, and will spend any amount of money to make himself look youthful. That's probably why we're so low on money, too. We'll probably have to move soon, all because he's this ridiculous spendthrift who wishes he were twenty years younger. It's kind of embarrassing, especially now that everybody but him is actually aware that the hair plugs look, well, monstrously fake. I think it's only gotten worse since Mom died, to be honest. There are more mirrors back at our house at Kellynch county than usual. Maybe he's trying to replace her with his reflection.

I sigh.

"You okay?" Charlie asks me over his shoulder, removing a bottle of orange juice from the top shelf of the fridge. I shrug and smile.

"Yeah - You excited that your parents and sisters are coming up from Florida?"

He puts on a pained smile that makes me laugh. He's only kidding, I know. I've met the Musgroves, and they're actually pretty sane and pleasant. Even his sisters, Hannah and Louisa. I mean, for young eighteen year-olds (twins, they run in the family), they're actually not that snooty. Well, Louisa can be a bit of a brat, not going to lie. Hannah and I have mostly gotten along more, but that's probably because we weirdly like most of the same movies.

Charlie sighs, "I guess I missed them. It's just frustrating, because whenever they come over, Mary tends to run around like a chicken with its head cut off, y'know?" Oh, do I. He adds, "I'm just grateful you're here to help. Thanks for taking the time out of your summer, Anne."

"No problem," I grin. He's such a nice guy, really.

"Oh," he pauses, "I guess I didn't mention that a friend of mine is visiting too, huh?"

I blink, "No." For a second, I wonder if there's enough room in the house. I've already designated my pull-out in the den and I really don't want to move. Oh well, if I must, I must.

"Yeah," Charlie shrugs, "He used to work for my father, I met him a couple years back and we're pretty close now. He's a creative type too, a journalist. Maybe you'll like him. Not that you don't get along with anybody," he adds. I roll my eyes good-naturedly, and screw the cap of the orange juice bottle back in place.

"I'm a regular bitch, you just don't hear that side," I mumble, swiping the carton from the counter. He snorts with disbelief. "So, this guy have a name?" I ask.

"Yup -- Fred Wentworth."

Thank God the orange juice is capped, because if I dropped it otherwise, Mary would have a fit about her stained tiles. But it drops, and I grip the counter's edge for balance. Charlie rushes to my side, wide-eyed. He grips my arms, "Anne? What happened?"

It's _such _a loaded questioned - he just has no idea.

"I thought I saw a spider," I reply meekly, as he stares into my face. It kind of doesn't bother me at the moment, because I can only think about one thing.

Fred Wentworth - _Frederick Wentworth_, in this house? For two weeks? Oh holy shit on toast, who did I murder in a past life to deserve this? I bet I was John Wilkes Boothe or _something_. I close my eyes.

This is _so _inconvenient.

* * *

**Author's Note****: **Um, yeah, so I've had a plotbunny forming for the longest time and I really wanted to take a crack at making my own version of a modern-day _Persuasion _story. I love these characters too much to not add my own spin on them. I just have two (well, maybe three) warnings before I start.

1. To the lovely people who read _Lilting _(ignore the blatant plug-in) and are venturing here, know that this fic will have a _lot _more cussing, including f-bombs, which is obvious in the very beginning. It's also less serious than say, something Phantom-oriented. It also might be slightly cynical in tone.

2. To Austen fans, the cussing warning also applies, also know that some names will be changed (just minor characters, because to me, Henrietta does _not _sound like a young girl nowadays - It sounds like a great aunt who plays checkers every Sunday at the senior center). Also, some minor characters might be exempt from the story as well, but nothing major will be hacked off. It also won't follow the plotline of _Persuasion _to a tee, I mean it's modern-day, I have to take some liberties. But the general flow will probably commence.

'Kay, so that's over with. Originally, I put this in the beginning, but I felt it was too yawn-inducing. Please, please, please read and review! I love feedback!


	2. Dash of Past: Part Two

There's something you should probably know about Frederick Thomas Wentworth - Just an itty bitty blurb, really. The thing is, Fred kind of played in a huge chapter of my life. Okay, so he _was _the actual chapter itself. Hell, he's probably in _most_ of them. I'd just be blatantly lying my ass off if I watered him down as something else.

Okay, here's how it went down.

Nearly four years ago, I was a scared-shitless freshman who had been ushered into some smoke-filled frat party I had no place in by my slightly promiscuous roommate, Kay, the first week of college. Imagine my surprise when I found that the hiding place I had already mentally designated in the kitchen (to escape from potheads and y'know, potential rapists) was currently filled by a slightly tall, definitely bored, scraggly young man. He was seated at the counter _reading_, I kid you not.

I had snorted. He had looked up, peeved.

He was there with friends. _I _was there with friends. Neither of us felt much like getting wasted, that was cleared up pretty quickly. And as we got to talking, I somehow registered that this guy was very smart. And not snobby-smart, but passionate, idealistic-smart. He had dreams, and aspirations and goals untainted by this cruel, cold world that strongly mirrored my own! ...And he was kind of cute, that didn't exactly hurt him. I must have sat with him for no less than three hours in that tiny corner of the kitchen. Words just _flowed_, nothing was forced or pressured, and it was actually quite astonishing. I think it was because neither of us really expected anything out of this encounter. There was just conversation, as simple as it seemed, and no need to impress the other or be something you weren't.

But after that allotted time slot, I knew this:

1. His name was Fred, we both had a thing for _Annie Hall_, and old David Bowie records -- and that he was a sophomore at Drexel majoring in creative writing.

2. He had this really, damnable contagious smile - seriously, it was like an infectious plague.

3. I amorously and foolishly began to develop a major crush on him.

I think I let myself get into that crush because I was pretty convinced I wouldn't see this thoughtful, intellectually-stimulating boy again. But two weeks later, we met at a birthday outing, and I was forced to metaphorically eat my words. Not that I minded eating them - I was thrilled to see him. We clicked again, and others _noticed _that we did, and pretty soon the obvious chemistry kind of had the force of a speeding truck down a highway. It definitely hit, and there was no ignoring it.

I might have done back flips on the way home the night he asked me out, with that shy, slightly coy smile and nervous fidget of his hands. But I'm not really sure, my memory's kind of hazy because I'm pretty certain that that was the night Kay puked on my new shoes on the train ride home. That was more than a distraction at the time.

And for one year, one blissfully, unimaginably wonderful year, I was happy - _Whole_. I had found a guy I truly began to love, and not only that, he had become my best friend. We saw each other at every opportunity possible, and were practically inseparable in the way that most people would get sickeningly nauseated at. I mean, we didn't complete one another's sentences or anything, if that's what you're guessing (we weren't _telepathically_ close), but we just got each other. It's such a hard concept to explain, really, the notion of that closeness. It was, well, _special_. A lot of people envied it, and I got a lot of shit from friends that year.

It hit hardest from home, unfortunately. I was bringing Fred back to Kellynch for the summer holiday, and it was made perfectly clear that we were absolutely smitten with each other to my family. Dad, while initially interested, was pretty much instantly turned off when he heard about my then-boyfriend's major. "So impractical!" he later told me. He was convinced that Fred would end up some poor, penniless schlub, dragging me away from my ("already frivolous") studies to pursue harebrained stories with him. It was such a ludicrous thought, and I kind of pushed it aside. Dad has always been, well, ridiculous.

Liz pretty much didn't care. I think she had three commercials in a row lined up for her that summer, and spent any amount of time she could perfecting her "Oh, wow!" expression for the new Chocolate Ovaltine ad that would premiere during _Good Morning America _one Thursday in July. I was thankful for her lack of interference. And Mary was away at a preparatory school, and knew nothing apart from the fact that I was seeing "some guy" who liked to "write". My family has never really been the attentive bunch, unless their own personal interests were at stake.

But there was one killer - and she came in the form of Cathy Russell. Let me explain about Cathy. First off, her husband (may he rest in peace) used to be golf buddies with my dad. Naturally, she became a close family friend because of that. When her husband died, she leaned on my mom for support. And when my mom died just shy of my eighteenth birthday, she took it upon herself to watch over my family.

Let me clear one thing up, though: Cathy's a good woman. She has been doing a decent job of caring for us Elliots for the last six or so odd years. She offers good guidance, and visits frequently. In the absence of my own mother, she was the only matronly figure I could sensibly look up to. And let's face it; I valued her opinion to no end. It had served me very well in the past.

So, when she called me over the afternoon after meeting Fred with this worrisome little crease on her forehead, I instantly wanted to know what was bothering her to hear her out.

"Anne, sweetie, you know how much I love and care for you - And that I only have your best intentions at heart?"

Of course I had known. I nodded, as she explained to me with a very good argument that while she found Fred "completely charming" and that she respected our little "affiliation", she was convinced that it would not end well. For one thing, he didn't have much going for him in terms of a future. His profession would be very competitive and would possibly wring him out dry, severing any affection he would have for me and turning our relationship bitter. Plus, she pressed, it was obvious that our futures rested in two very different fields and we both wanted very different things out of life.

Being programmed to respect my elders' opinions and pretty much obey them, I dwelled on her reasoning for an entire two weeks. They were the crummiest days of that entire year, I swear. I could totally sense that he knew something was up, too. I was just unconsciously distancing myself. And when I finally broke it off, I don't really know what hurt the most. To this day, it's a cross between that unimaginably hurt, angry look on his face, and those unbearable words: "And here I thought you had a mind of your own."

I hadn't seen anybody in the three, almost four years since then. I think I tried, with friends' encouragement, but nothing really worked out. Nobody was quite like Fred, and I was still very, very attached. Since then, I hadn't heard a word from one, Frederick Wentworth, and was perfectly convinced that I never would again. He could have fallen off the very face of the earth, for all I knew.

But then again, this world doesn't really play out fairly in the long run.

* * *

**Author's Note****:** Eeh, okay, so I'm getting this second chapter out super fast because I really wanted to introduce some Wentworth. Plus, these introductory, family-history bits are weighing me down, and I'm pretty sure they're cleared out for the most part - so from now on, I can just go on with the actual plot!

Yes, I totally improvised Frederick's middle name. And yes, it is mostly for shits and giggles because his initials have turned out to be: FTW! ...I would say it was an accident, but that'd just be blatant lying. Anyway, thank you to those who are becoming aware of this story and stopping by, and please (please, please) leave a review!


	3. Ancient History with Breakfast

Danny Musgrove has unintentionally saved me from this hellhole of awkwardness after all! Ninety-seven percent of me feels really awful, but this golden, three percent sliver is wriggling with joy.

The poor boy seriously has a freakish delight of heights. It didn't exactly surprise us that he would attempt to climb the china shelves in the dining room. It did, however, horrify us when his twin scrambled into the living room to announce that his brother had just fallen to his imminent doom.

Using less dramatic words, of course, something to the variant of, "Danny _died_."

We think he has a sprained wrist. But it could have been worse. I sit at his bedside as he sleeps, tear-streaked cheeks _finally _dry (that boy could challenge a foghorn). Hunter pokes him from where we sit, and I swat him away. From the hall, I can hear Mary and Charlie arguing.

"I've already _called _Dr. Burns, Mary, he just needs plenty of rest and nurturing. We have an appointment tomorrow morning, and that's the earliest." Charlie sounds somewhat bored. Maybe irritated, but mostly bored.

A huff (Mary), and then, "But somebody's got to sit with him this evening, and I've worked so hard to get this place clean for your parents!"

"Then I'll stay with him," Charlie responds with a sigh.

"They're _your _family, you can't do that!"

"Honestly, this isn't the nineteenth century. They won't get offended if I don't have dinner with them. They're understanding people, for crying out loud." Yep, Charlie's really starting to get pissed. I soothe Danny as he whines a little in his sleep.

Mary brushes his comment off, pauses and then exclaims, "Wait a minute! Anne!" I perk up at my name, confused. "Anne can stay with him!"

"I couldn't ask her to do that, she's our guest."

"Oh, she'll be fine - Anne! _Anne!_"

And so it's settled. I honestly have no objection. They've just saved me from the mortification of meeting him. I'm perfectly obliged to camp out in the boys' room for the entire length of two weeks, if I have to.

Of course, the Musgroves themselves are a little hard to avoid.

An hour later, watching cartoons with a sullen Danny, I hear the clamber of activity and company downstairs. Instinctively, I stiffen, trying to pick out his voice among the others. I can't, and I kind of scold myself for even trying.

Seriously, I'm just being stupid. I tell myself this again and again. So, Fred Wentworth and I have a past, so what? It's been a long time, and things are _definitely _over. They have been. I bet he's completely moved on, too. Why wouldn't he be? It's all ancient history.

The thought is mildly empowering. We'll just be indifferent to each other, that's all. Yeah, it'll be uncomfortable, but we'll make do. That chapter of my life is closed, and I would be surprised if he even took a second glance at me. I continue a quiet mantra of that variety, just as Charlie's parents themselves burst into the bedroom and startle the living daylights out of us.

God bless them, they're incredibly loving grandparents. Mrs. Musgrove practically flings herself at the twins, peppering them with kisses, emptying her pockets of smuggled chocolate (I don't know how she got passed Mary). She pauses to coo sympathetically at Danny's wrist. Mr. Musgrove follows behind and ruffles their hair, and then they both spot me.

"Anne!" they exclaim (in unison, I might add), and they envelope me with hugs. I grin. Sometimes, I wish they were my parents. Anxiously, I glance over their heads to see if the rest of the party is trailing behind. Only Hannah is.

We grin and hug. She's a lanky girl, freckled and dark-haired , and kind of like Charlie in temper, except for a slightly competitive side. We've gotten along pretty well as far as in-laws are concerned.

"So, where's your sister?" I ask, after she's finished inspecting Danny and probing him with tickles. She glances up and her smile shifts into a scowl.

"Downstairs, probably latched onto Charlie's friend," she sighs, and I raise an eyebrow. "Have you met him?"

"No," I blink at how stiff my voice sounds. It doesn't faze her though. She continues on, plucking at her shoelaces with apathy.

"He's really sweet, and nice, but sure enough, Lou's always first to gobble up attention. Since we were little kids, I swear..." her speech is spaced by a few heavy sighs here and there. I clear my throat, trying to be understanding.

"It's just a phase; she'll grow out of it." Part of me winces, because I somehow doubt this. But Hannah's nerves are smoothed for the time being, and that's good. She flashes me a smile and beckons towards the door.

"Let's go meet him, then. And you still haven't seen Louisa."

"Oh, no," I pale, "That's okay - I'm stuck up here for the night with Danny."

Hannah looks confused, and opens her mouth to reply. She's interrupted by Hunter, whose fiddling with his brother's ace bandage has caused great distress.

Pretty soon, I'm left alone in the room for the evening, and very thankful of it. Around half past five, Louisa comes in, having heard of my "temporary imprisonment", as Hannah had so eloquently put it.

"Hey," she greets, sliding into the room to give me a hug.

"Lou," I smile, and we break apart. She tucks a strand of her auburn hair behind an ear and looks over at a sleeping Danny.

"I heard the little bugger did something stupid," she says off-handedly. I push aside her slightly harsh tone and shrug.

"He's little -- he'll be okay."

We eye him for a couple of moments, and then she turns back to me with wild enthusiasm.

"So, you coming downstairs or what? You still haven't met Charlie's friend!" Somehow, I don't like the way her eyes light up at that. In fact, I get a little queasy.

I mask my discomfort, "That's okay, you're all here for two weeks anyway. I'm sure I'll see him at some point." _God, I wish I wouldn't. _

But Louisa's too stubborn. She whines, tugging at my hands. "At least come down for dessert, the kid's sleeping anyway. And Fred is really just such a sweetheart, a total looker, too. You have to meet him!"

"I'm fine," I press on, ignoring her description. "Go have a good night with your family, it's not like I'm being incarcerated up here."

She rolls her eyes, "You might as well be!"

After finally shooing her out, the next few hours pass by calmly. By the time midnight chimes and the laughter and tinkling of dinnerware subside, I hear them all shuffling to bed.

And then, Mary's voice by the door, "Oh no, Fred, not there, my sister's sleeping in the den. Charlie took your things to the guest room right next door."

I inch closer to the door to hear them. I only hear the slight murmur of conversation, a twittering laugh on Mary's behalf, and then the sound of doors closing.

I am thankful to say that I have survived the first evening under the same roof with him. Of course, the next day might prove a little more taxing - considering that we'll probably be forced to acknowledge that the other exists and all.

* * *

I peel myself off of the sofa bed in the den around nine the next morning to find that the entire house is still. Grinning with relief, I slink off to the bathroom in peace to shower and wash up. By the time I come downstairs, pulling my hair back into a messy bun, I see that Mary's already by the stove of the kitchen, scrambling eggs. She seems to be alone at first, but then I spot Hannah setting plates at the table with her mother.

"Look at you three morning birds," I murmur, moving past to kiss my sister briefly on the cheek, and Mrs. Musgrove and her daughter shortly after.

Mary sends me a look I half-suspect is patronizing, "_Some_body has to prepare breakfast."

Hannah sighs and leans against the counter, pouring sugar into her own cup of coffee. She cocks her head for a second, and then says, "Are we doing anything interesting today?"

I snort, moving past her to grab my own cup, "What do you have in mind?"

Mrs. Musgrove sighs, "Sweetie, is family not interesting enough for a change?"

Hannah only grins slyly, and I nudge her with my elbow, spooning coffee into my mug, "I think you signed up for the wrong party."

"Oh come on, Anne, you and me should at least go shopping or something," she insists, raising an eyebrow. "With_out_ Louisa, if you prefer. I remember the last time she wrestled you into Hollister."

I make a face, unhappy to relive the memory.

"The only store you'll get Anne into these days is Michael's," Mary joins our little conversation with a smirk.

I sigh and lean over to Hannah, "She's still mad at me for abandoning her at Forever 21 once because I remembered I was running low on sketchbooks and oil pastels."

"Art nerd," the younger girl rolls her eyes good-humoredly.

"Mm, what smells _amazing_?" Charlie's warm voice fills the kitchen as he walks in. He places a hand on my shoulder, giving me a look. I had flinched when I first heard him, half-expecting him to be somebody else, and he's noticed.

"That would be breakfast," Mary replies, pausing, "The kids up?"

"Give them five minutes, I just swung by," he says. She reminds him that the doctor's appointment is in two hours' time. He tells her to relax, peeved. A slightly uncomfortable strain of a petty argument is stretched over the kitchen again, just as Louisa walks in, her arm linked with-

I freeze.

He stops too, startled. I don't know if he expected me or not. Maybe he did. But I guess for all my emotional prepping, I'm still a little stunned. It's Fred - _really _Fred. Well, maybe some distinctly improved version of him, but still.

Louisa unhinges her slim arm from his and looks between us, breaking out into a smile. "Anne!" she greets, and suddenly the world feels like turning again. We blink, and get our bearings.

"This is Mary's sister, Anne Elliot," she chirps, pulling me by the wrist. I stumble slightly, and glance up at him. I really can't help but redden. "Anne, this is Fred Wentworth."

He's looking at me with surprise, but then it fades in favor of a cool, collected expression - even slightly indifferent.

"We've met," I mumble feebly, but I doubt she hears, because she's just skipped off to say something to her sister.

Fred clears his throat and meets my eye, "Hey."

"Hi," I respond a little too quickly, wringing my hands.

"How have you been?" he asks, rubbing the back of his neck. He smiles slightly, but it seems forced, and it doesn't really touch his eyes. At least he's _trying_ to be pleasant and civil.

"Good," I answer, my voice disturbingly quiet. "And you?"

"Fine." I realize that he looks good - _really_ good. I mean, I could still recognize him, but he's fleshed out a bit, and he looks more man than the boyish, lanky Fred I remember. His dark blonde hair is slightly longer than I recall, too, and he's swapped his shorts and sports tee get-up for a smart polo and jeans.

Silence occupies the space between us, and we shift uncomfortably. But Louisa reappears just in time, and props her pretty head on his shoulder, "Freddy, do you like your eggs poached or scrambled?"

_Freddy_?

He makes a face, and answers, "Scrambled, please." I somehow remember that, but he doesn't look at me. He's looking at Louisa with a warm grin, boyish dimples lighting up his face. For a second, he's exactly who he was. Well, kind of.

"Ah, I see you've met Anne," Mr. Musgrove appears beside Louisa, and he strokes his chin thoughtfully. I raise an eyebrow - I always thought you had to have a beard to do that? But he turns to me and adds, "You creative types probably have loads to talk about."

Fred looks uncomfortable, clearly, mirroring my own face.

"Oh, Fred's a journalist," Louisa mistakes my uneasiness for misinformation. I turn to look at him quizzically, but he's still not looking at me.

"A top-_notch _journalist," Charlie seems to have squeezed himself into our little circle, and he claps a hand on his friend's shoulder. Fred rolls his eyes and smiles. "Don't be modest, there aren't many of us who get our editorials published in _Newsweek_."

I blink, startled, and open my mouth. I desperately, curiously want to ask him about what happened to his creative writing pursuits, when he switched majors, where his life is now. But then I realize we're in completely different boats. We're not the type of people to have easy conversations anymore. We probably will never even manage to be really friendly with each other. But his success looms as a big, "I-Told-You-So", and I feel the heat of it shaming me.

His brown eyes meet mine for a moment, as if daring me to say something. There's a subtle quirk to his lips, but I wouldn't call it smug. At least, I don't think. But then Mary's voice shakes our little group apart, and I feel like the only one truly grateful for her interruption:

"Stop gawking around, go and sit down already! Honestly, I slave away in the kitchen _all_ morning--"

And so we're ushered to the table. Hannah takes a seat beside me, cocking her head towards Louisa and Fred across from us. "She's all over him," she mutters to me quietly, and I glance at them, catching snippets of their conversation.

"I could _seriously _beat you at arm wrestling," Louisa challenges, and uses the statement as an excuse to let her palm linger on his bicep.

Fred rolls his eyes pointedly and smirks, leaning over to whisper something in her ear. She giggles and he leans in towards her on folded arms, cradling his head in his hand with a smile I could swear is flirtatious. I stare into my plate.

"So, Anne," Charlie's father addresses me through a mouthful of hashbrowns. "What are you doing now that you're out of school? I haven't talked to you in ages!" The conversation seems like it should be personal, but he's already captured all of the table's attention. I blush.

"Just some freelance work, Mr. Musgrove," I say, chasing an errant bit of egg around my plate with a fork.

After he corrects me and asks me to call him by his first name (as he's done since I've know him), he replies, "That sounds vague - What kind of freelance?"

"You're working for that childrens' book company next, right Anne?" Mary turns to me, sipping her tea. I could sense she's not really that interested, but she feels the need to speak up for me, or defend the "frivolous" idea of a future my family has always entertained it to be.

"Right," I respond quietly.

"Anne's a fantastic artist," Charlie announces to nobody in particular, heaping generous spoonfuls of bacon onto his plate, "Nearly kicked my ass in a couple of our freshman year courses."

"Now you're just being delusional," I tell him with a smile, but thank him for the compliment. He pretends to bow graciously, and Louisa arches an eyebrow.

"Charlie, you're so weird sometimes."

"Aw, sibling affection," he mutters, grinning, and threatens to trap her in a headlock. She pulls back with a squeak of, "Don't touch my hair!"

"Such a baby," Fred adds with a smirk, and she throws him a look of mock-resentment - which is obviously enough of an excuse to lean closer to him.

"She really is," Hannah mumbles, looking dejected. Fred glances up, and our eyes meet for a split second.

"Say, Fred," Charlie mutters mid-chew, "What really brings you to us here in Uppercross county from your Manhattan apartment, hm? I know it's not just the Musgrove company."

And there's a new snippet of information - I guess he lives in Manhattan now. I instantly picture some modern, marble-countered loft to match his intellectual, fancy journalism career that's heating up _Newsweek_, apparently.

But Fred is all cool, and he reclines with a teasing grin, "Obviously, it's you Musgroves. Sometimes a guy just wishes he had his friend's family."

"Such a kiss-ass," Charlie counters, jabbing him lightly in the ribs, and Fred laughs.

"Maybe it's the ladies," Mrs. Musgrove suggests with a wry, but mostly corny, smile. I can't help but smile at how her eyebrows waggle. Her daughters look faintly disgusted.

"Seriously, son," Mr. Musgrove interjects, "When _are_ you going to settle down?"

Fred shrugs his shoulders and rubs at the slight stubble of his chin, "When I'm good and ready, that's all."

"What a bullshit excuse," Charlie laughs, "Just admit that you're ridiculously picky."

"Well, yeah, there is that."

"There's nothing wrong with it," Mrs. Musgrove defends, "We all need time to look for the right person. You're obviously looking for specific traits in a girl, aren't you, Fred?"

He nods after a moment, "I guess. I do have some high standards, I've got to admit."

"What's number one?" Louisa asks, her tone fairly suggestive.

He straightens, looks at me for the barest moment, and turns back, "I'd have to say she would have to be _very _strong in mind and character - a girl who knows what she wants, and doesn't let others decide for her, you know?"

"I completely agree."

"Very important."

"Strong will, and all that."

He's not looking at me, but I rather wish I could sink into my chair and somehow slink away from the room to avoid this all. It's a backhanded attack, a very subtle one I _could_ have chosen to ignore, but I don't. It stings too much.

He's still harboring a grudge, I realize. Attempting to be civil or not, he's still angry with me. I trace the rim of my coffee mug, hiding my face from view.


	4. Meet Me by the Sequoia Tree

Hannah's shopping plans finally go into effect later that day. After Danny's doctor's appointment (just a sprained wrist, thankfully), the eighteen year-old forces me and Mary into the nearest mall. Louisa has decided to "hang" with Charlie and Fred (though I suspect more with the latter), and the Musgroves have taken it upon themselves to pay a visit to an old acquaintance in town, with the little twins in tow.

Mary sniffs and looks over a clearance rack at Macy's with me, while her sister-in-law nearly devours it. She has several selections draped over her pale arms, and I see Mary glance at them from the corner of her eye, probably hoping that she won't be obliged to pay for her clothing. I stifle a smile.

"This is _so_ cute," Hannah murmurs, holding up a floral frock against her frame. I cock my head and agree with her. "I'm going to go try on all this crap, okay? I'll see you guys in a bit." And with that, she skirts off in search of the nearest dressing room.

Mary snorts after she's left, "That girl has such bad taste in clothing."

I laugh, and Mary sends me a questioning look. "Let her wear what she wants, Mae," I press gently, utilizing an old nickname I truly thought was lost. She sighs, but I can sense that she's loosened up a bit. We continue browsing.

"Hey, why didn't you tell me you know Fred Wentworth?" she suddenly asks, eyes slightly accusing.

I pause in shock, only managing to stutter, "What?"

"Yeah," she turns back to search through a bin or two, "I was talking to Fred after breakfast, and he said that you guys used to be friends or something." She paused then, squinting, "What was that word he used? Oh, right, _acquaintances. _You used to frequent the same parties or hang with the same people or something the first year of college. You never mentioned that."

I'm relieved that he hadn't told her everything - Or at least, part of me is. I can't make sense of the slightly bedraggled part that distinctly isn't.

I attempt my best look of nonchalance, "I don't know, I guess it wasn't really that important. We barely knew each other." Mary seems to absorb this and shrugs, but I still feel like a partial shit for lying to her.

She then faces me, her expression slightly amused, "He actually told me that he barely recognized you when he saw you this morning - That you had changed a lot."

I frown. What did _that _mean?

"What the hell does that mean?" I mutter, running my fingers over a tangerine tulle skirt.

Mary snorts and shrugs, "I can't tell if it's a good thing or a bad thing, but methinks it's the latter."

"Well, _ouch_."

"Don't fret over it," she rolls her eyes, as if _I'm _the one who tends to overreact. "It's not like I'm expecting you to hook up or anything." I find it ironic how the phrase causes her to giggle slightly, as if the thought is truly ridiculous. In a way, it is. "Actually, he looks pretty cozy with Louisa at the moment."

I grumble, clearly not wanting to talk about this.

"Oh, don't tell me you're rooting for _Hannah_," Mary mistakes my gesture, and stops in her tracks. "Charlie's been saying that to me ever since they arrived, but I can't see anything in that pair. There's nothing there at all, and they just don't compliment each other."

"What makes you think Louisa does?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Mary shrugs, "They just get on well, that's all. I don't think she should _marry _the guy or anything, she's only eighteen. But maybe a mature man will grow her up a bit, and he's a great choice."

I shake my head. _Mary, Mary, Mary. There's so much you don't know._ _There's so much that everybody doesn't know._

Suddenly, Hannah flies to our side, gasping for breath. I lean over, catching her by her shoulders, "Hannah--"

"Holy _fuck_," she wheezes, thrusting an olive colored dress in front of my face. She ignores the stern, motherly glare Mary sends her at her choice of language, and seizes my arm, "I saw this on the fitting room rack, and thought that you would look _gorgeous _in it! Call it intuition or something, but you have to buy this. I _feel _it."

Mary and I blink at her, but I run my fingers over the skirt of the dress anyway. It's got soft, flow-y barely-there short sleeves, a deep but tasteful v-neck and a rich, olive color. I can _sort _of see what she means. I mean, it matches my eyes, if that counts for something. And it's very pretty. But I've never seen somebody go that insane over a dress before, unless you credit Mary and her bridal gown woes.

"Hannah," I shake my head, "I'm not really a dress kind of girl."

"But--" she tries, and I'm surprised when Mary interrupts.

"Anne, do you even have a dress with you here?"

"Well, no, I've got a skirt--"

"What if we go out to dinner?" Hannah asks, arching an eyebrow.

I laugh, throwing my hands up in the air, "What is _up_ with you two? Is this like, finally your chance to stuff me into something that isn't ripped jeans and tank top oriented?"

"Yes," they chorus, Mary the more subdued of the two.

I sigh. When we leave, the jade dress is folded carefully at the bottom of a white Macy's bag. The other three are Hannah's, and to Mary's pleasure, not a dime from her own wallet was extracted.

* * *

By the time we come home, we're shocked to see that the house is relatively empty. We are notified (via post-it -- so archaic) that Charlie's left for groceries, and Fred and Louisa's respective absences hint that he's most likely carted them off with him. Mary skirts off to take a bath ("Now that I have an hour or two to myself without the twins"), and Hannah disappears into her temporary bedroom to finish some unpacking.

And then, I'm truly grateful to have the house relatively to myself. The Musgroves' home in Uppercross county (a small, secluded little borough around twenty minutes from Allentown) is actually quite an extensive property. It's got classic, homey touches and winding gardens that have always kind of thrilled me. I retreat into the backyard, leave my flip flops on the deck, and wander barefoot through the grass until I reach their large sequoia tree. Finding a more comfortable root stub, I take a seat and start to roll up my jeans. It really is too hot. But the breeze is fantastic, and it whips through my hair and suddenly makes everything okay. I close my eyes and disappear from things for awhile.

I finally stir when I realize that it's become significantly cooler, and goose bumps have begun to trail up my arms. I must have dozed for a bit. Gripping the tree for support, I pull myself up, only to screech and fall back suddenly on my ass - lovely.

Fred Wentworth's standing over me, looking bemused. Sighing, he offers a hand and I glance at it wearily, brushing my bangs from my eyes.

"I thought you were with Charlie and Louisa," I confront him, frowning.

He raises an eyebrow, "I was, but they went grocery shopping."

"And you--"

"_Didn't_, that's right," he responds coolly.

"Why--?"

"Are we seriously playing twenty questions, Anne?" Fred asks, and I don't like the mocking edge to his voice. Disgruntled, he lets his hand return back to his side. I help myself up, feeling awkward as I brush the dirt from my jeans and t-shirt.

He seems a bit strained as well, kicking some dirt with the toe of his shoe, probably wondering why on earth he ventured out here in the first place now that he's stuck making petty conversation with that bitch of an ex-girlfriend of his. I cross my arms over my chest.

"So," I ask, attempting my half-assed version of breezy, "Journalism, huh?"

He catches my eye, as if unsure if I'm being sarcastic or not. Once he's convinced that I'm not, he shrugs, "Yeah. I guess it turned out to be my calling and all that."

"Good for you," I murmur quietly, meaning it. Seriously, I just wanted him to be happy. I think he realizes this, because he looks at me more intently.

"Well, I like it," he grins for a fraction of a second, and I miss it when it's gone, "So, how about you?" I realize he's referring to my slightly opaque future and career description.

"Well, you heard our breakfast conversation," I rub the back of my neck, not very sure of myself, "I think."

"I did," he responds, "What, you're not happy with what you're doing now? This whole freelance business?" He doesn't seem smug or sarcastic, just truly curious.

"I never said I wasn't happy," I conclude, kicking a pebble or two. "It just doesn't exactly thrill my family - It never has, you know that."

"Yeah," he mumbles, as if uncomfortable with digging up the past. He glances away quickly, back towards the house, and I'm convinced he'll turn back now having just realized he's supposed to despise me and never attempt conversation.

But Fred just lingers, and shoves his hands in his pockets, overlooking the property. The sun hits his eyes in a peculiar angle, and I try to remind myself that it's not really helping the cause that I still find him so attractive after all this time. This train of thought doesn't exactly work, so I just look downward and feign interest in a rock.

"So," he clears his throat, "Have you," a pause, "Are you seeing--"

"There you are!" a distinctly feminine (and slightly flowery) voice pierces the air, and the lithe, auburn-haired Louisa barrels into view. We jump and automatically take a step away from each other - It's slightly comical, because we weren't even very close to begin with.

She catches up with us and wraps her arms around his shoulders, "Freddy, we missed you at the supermarket. We could have used some good arm power with those groceries."

"My sincere apologies," Fred attempts to bow, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Louisa rolls her eyes with a cheeky sneer before noticing a third member intruding on their annoyingly flirtatious banter.

"How was shopping, Anne?" she asks me airily.

I shrug. _Less exhausting than it would have been with you._

"Probably boring, hm?" Louisa snorts, "That's what you get for taking Hannah instead of me."

"We _did _offer, Louisa," I inform her.

"You're pretty mean to your sister, you know that?" Fred teases, grinning at her. He hasn't met my eye since she appeared.

"All just friendly sibling chitchat, Freddy," she squints up at him, "Don't you have any siblings?"

"Two," I murmur with a grin, thinking of Edward Wentworth and his older sister Sophie - two both unfathomably sweet people I took a great liking to years ago. But then I realize our circumstances and glance up. Fred looks slightly ashen, and Louisa's just plainly surprised at this strange level of connection.

"How do you know--?" she starts shrewdly.

"We were just talking about our families," I inform her with surprising ease, "Fred mentioned earlier that he has a brother and a sister."

"Oh," Louisa says. After a couple of seconds, she links her arm through Fred's for no reason whatsoever, and pretends to remove a dust particle from his collar. I excuse myself.


	5. Inconveniences of an Eavesdropping Sort

As I weave my way through the brush and shrubbery, I see them begin to walk by the woods in the back of the Musgroves' home. It's good that I've excused myself; I'm not sure if I can particularly stand these uncomfortable encounters anymore, especially with them two. I sigh, digging my hands into my pockets. I freeze mid-step.

"Shit," I mutter to nobody in particular, realizing that I've left my cell phone behind. It had been digging into my hip and I had shoved it aside earlier. I quickly find my way back to the sequoia and locate it hidden in a tuft of grass.

"—and Anne—"

I stop, blinking. Louisa's talking about me. Perking up, I press my back to the tree quietly, peering around. I feel ridiculous, really, but they don't spot me and curiosity kind of triumphs at that moment. I step closer, catching their conversation.

"Mary's just too difficult, _annoying_, in a word," Louisa sighs, "But Anne has a really easy temper, I'm sure you've noted by now – she would have made a better sister-in-law, probably."

"Sister-in-law?" Fred repeats quietly, confused.

"Well, I didn't think Anne would actually _marry_ Charlie, I mean they were both very young at the time—"

"You mean she dated Charlie?" Fred states blankly, pausing in his tracks. Louisa gives him a strange look, placing her hands high on her hips, and he looks away quickly.

"Well, _yeah_. They were pretty close in the beginning of his freshman year; Charlie was practically in love with her. But she broke it off just before he wanted things to get more serious," she informs him, inspecting a strand of her auburn hair. "Sometimes I wonder what things would've been like if they'd have stayed together."

"Why'd they split?" he asks.

"Something about a meddlesome family friend, I heard, Russell or something or other. She apparently convinced her that they weren't right for each other," Louisa shrugs, evidently growing bored. "Anne's always been too much of a goody-goody to disobey her elders and all that old-fashioned shit."

Fred actually smirks.

"Whatever, I guess it's all for the best now," Louisa shrugs, grinning up at him, "I just know that if it were me, I would decide for myself and not break off perfectly good relationships just because somebody else has a problem with it."

"Smart girl," he notes, smiling.

"_Anne!_" I nearly yelp as a hand claps over my shoulder, whirling around in shock. Mr. Musgrove is standing behind me, his expression curious. I glance back at Fred and Louisa to find that they're still deep in conversation, appearing none-the-wiser.

"Mr. Musgrove," I sigh, "You scared me."

"What are you doing out here all alone?" he asks, and I spot Hunter and Danny swatting at each other on the deck. They must have arrived very recently.

"I left my phone out here," I show him, sliding it into my jean pocket again.

He grins, "Don't go losing it, you know! I had a nasty experience with a Blackberry my son bought me a few months back. Accidentally threw it overboard during a fishing trip -- It was quite the loss."

"I imagine," I laugh.

"Anyway, I came to remind you to pack your things tonight, I'm not sure if Charlie and Mary told you," he notes seriously, slinging his thumbs through the belt hoops of his jeans.

I blink, "For what?"

"We're vising some friends of mine and Fred's down the shore, they used to work at the local paper with me back in the day. Great guys if you ask me," he smiles.

"Oh," I smile back, shrugging, "For how long are we staying?"

"Two or three days, most likely. I think you'll like them – Ben Harville is an old employee of mine and he's spending the summer down there with his family. Jimmy Benwick is the other, he's just visiting like we are."

"Hm," I reply, and make a mental note to pack some necessities tonight.

* * *

I really didn't expect to meet Anne Elliot in this little suburban house at _all_. I could've easily gone without seeing her ever again, I'm sure. But how was I supposed to know Charlie's wife's maiden name and make the connection between the surname Elliot? How was I supposed to register the fact that Mary's sister might actually be, of all _people_ –

Anyway, I felt fortunate enough that our paths hadn't really crossed this first day beyond breakfast. It hasn't been the pleasantest of reunions, but I'm sure she's gotten the message of how I'm feeling. I am in no way, in any sense of the word, prepared to care about anything that even has to do with her. That chapter of my life is closed shut, thanks, and I'm content with avoiding her altogether. So you can imagine my surprise when wandering outside for some peace of mind, I find none other than Anne Elliot herself sleeping quietly by the sequoia a few feet away from me.

I was so prepared to turn around and silently creep back into the house, _really_, I was just about to. But I'm rooted to the spot oddly enough. Firstly, I can't believe she's actually fallen asleep out here, that seems like something you'd only dig out of a novel. But I get kind of transfixed by how her eyelashes brush against her cheekbones and how a strand of her dark hair curls delicately by her ear—

I really didn't want the conversation that followed when she woke up, either, but it came anyway. She's almost criminally nice to me, despite my attempt to be distant, despite my blatant show with Louisa time and time again. I have to remind myself not to get too sucked into it, to remind myself that her pleasant behavior is usually little more than a ruse. When it comes to real life and real decisions, it's others that think for her, not Anne herself.

Hopefully the trip down the shore will put the necessary distance between us. So far, Anne Elliot is nothing but inconvenient to me.

I think.

* * *

"Anne, come on, get _up_." Mary flaps the warm covers over me in a way only my mother had done in the past. The chill it brings forces me to tuck my folded legs against my chest, huddled like an animal. The bed is _so _inviting then, and Mary's slightly shrill tone is definitely _not_. But thank goodness I'd packed last night. I don't know how I would've found the strength to do so this morning. Hell, I don't even think I can get up.

Grumbling, I pull myself up, watching Mary retreat into the hallway. I steal a glance at my watch on the bedside table, appalled to realize that it's six in the morning. I wonder if she's managed to wake everybody yet, or just me. I wonder if Fred or Charlie, or the Musgrove girls are in the kitchen yet, having breakfast. And then suddenly, as if I'm really in the mood to converse, my cell phone vibrates sharply at my bedside. I snatch it angrily.

"Yeah?" I bark, clearly groggy and pissed off.

"_Anne_, goodness, what happened?" Cathy's voice surprises me (I clearly didn't take the time to read the Caller ID), and I instantly change the gears of my voice and clear my throat.

"Hey, Cathy," I greet, rubbing at my eyes, "Nothing happened, you're just calling really early."

"But I just called Mary around five minutes ago and she said that she'd woken you up!"

"Well, yeah, _true_, but couldn't you have given me--"

"How are you, sweetie? Enjoying Uppercross?" she asks me sweetly, sincerely interested.

I stretch slightly and sigh, "Yeah, it's nice to see the Musgroves again." I bite my lip -- _Should I tell her about Fred?_ "How are things at Kellynch?" _I guess not_.

"Oh, all right, I guess," It's Cathy's turn to sigh. I hear a light pattering of water paint the background behind her voice, and I suspect she's tending to her garden again. "Your sister is constantly hanging out with Evelyn Clay, joined at the hip. She's even taken to sleeping over at Kellynch, as if they're schoolgirls having slumber parties or something."

"Nice," I mumble.

"And your father is arranging to rent out the house for the next six months, did you know?"

I pause, shocked. Rent Kellynch out, seriously? I grow uncomfortable at the thought of strangers occupying my childhood home, a sense of protectiveness swarming my senses. It is the house that my mother raised us in, after all (and the one that our father pretended to raise us in). "Has our financial situation seriously gotten this bad?" I ask, scooting to the edge of the sofa bed.

"I'm afraid so," Cathy tsks sadly, "He and Elizabeth are already looking into an apartment in the city. Matthew Shepherd (your father's real estate agent) got him a great deal for downtown Philadelphia."

"Isn't that more expensive?" I ask skeptically.

"It should be, yes, but Shepherd's wormed through some loopholes, and it helps that his daughter is none other than Evelyn Clay. She chalked him up to it."

"Evelyn _Clay_," I repeat, dumbfounded, "How can that be--?"

"Divorced parents, she kept her mother's name."

"Ah."

"Yes, so, that's that. How's Mary? Still not the world's greatest mother, I take it?" Cathy asks, and I hear the light mocking in her aged voice.

"Cathy," I murmur, plucking at a feather in the mattress, "Don't give her such a hard time, she tries hard. Motherhood can't be something we're born mastering, and Danny and Hunter are lovely kids."

"True," she sighs, "Charlie's a wonderful father, I hear."

"Yeah," I mutter, "So, who's renting out Kellynch then?"

"Hm? Oh, an ex-naval officer and his wife actually, I don't think you know them, though -- David Croft and his wife Sophie."

The name strikes a bell in my mind, and I blink, standing. "Sophie Croft," I mutter, "Sophie Croft née _Wentworth_?"

"The last name sounds a bit familiar," Cathy notes casually, "You know them?"

"Just her," I smile, recalling the charismatic, wise Sophie I met freshman year visiting Fred's family over the holidays. I think of the irony that is life, really wanting to laugh at it all. "Cathy, she's Fred's sister."

There's a sufficient pause at the other end of the phone.

"Fred Wentworth," Cathy says slowly, understanding.

"Yes," I pause, "Look, I forgot to tell you, but he's here."

"He's _what_?"

"He's here at Uppercross, visiting with the Musgroves. See, he used to work with Mr. Musgrove at a small local magazine company just out of college, and he became good friends with Charlie since then. Apparently the Musgroves got him his big break, he's actually writing editorials for _Newsweek_, among others. But yeah, he's here visiting." I might have rambled a bit, just a smidge.

"Anne, honey," I hear the apprehension in Cathy's tone, "You--"

"Cathy, it's seriously fine," I press, actually meaning, "Things are slightly awkward, I'll grant you that, but it's all ancient history. Besides, he seems really interested in Louisa Musgrove."

"Louisa?" she echoes, surprised, "That's good."

"Yeah," I shrug.

"Okay, dear, if you're sure."

I repeat that I am, and after awhile, I start to believe it. We part ways and bid our goodbyes, and when I slide the damned phone closed, I fall backward onto the bed again mid-sigh. Suddenly, a thought occurs, half-driven by assurances to Cathy Russell and half by Fred Wentworth's critical jabs at me yesterday (even if the last wasn't meant to reach my ears). And so it's decided. I'll be as indifferent as he is. I mean, it's only fair. Why am I investing so much energy and emotion into this, watching him carry on as if it's nothing? He's settled, moving forward in life, and I'll be damned if I don't do the same. I throw off my covers and practically sprint to the bathroom to take a shower. It takes a lot of willpower not to mutter, "I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair," but I can't help but giggle at it.

Twenty minutes later, I come downstairs freshly showered, feeling fantastic, revived, incredible. I don't know what's exactly caused it. I was right though, the Musgroves and Fred are assembled in the kitchen against the counter, laughter chiming among them. Hunter and Danny are groggily slumped against the couch, newly fed but distressed at having been wakened at too early an hour. Chirping a good morning to all, I shove past Fred and Charlie quickly to get to the coffee pot, craving it beyond all rational thought.

Fred blinks, moves aside, but doesn't say anything.

Charlie grins at me, "Easy, tiger."

I smile sweetly, grasping the carton of milk a little too quickly from Hannah.

"I take it you're not a morning person, huh?" she laughs, raising an eyebrow, "Welcome to our ranks of night owls."

"I've been in those ranks since before you were _born_," I inform her, a little too crisply. I blame it on the lack of caffeine in my bloodstream.

"_Ouch_," Charlie laughs, "Anne, I like you this early!"

"Hm, I'm sure. Hey, where's Louisa?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder. Fred's the first person I see, but he's staring into the reflection of his coffee mug with an absurd level of concentration for six-thirty. He always was quiet in the mornings. He glances up, having sensed my attentions, but I turn away quickly and ask Charlie.

"Getting dressed, I suspect, she's the last one up," he grins, taking a sip from his mug. "And my parents are loading their things into the Yukon, I sensed you were going to ask about them next."

"Are we all going into the Yukon, then?" Hannah asks, looking discomforted at the fact.

"Doubtful," her older brother says, "It seats nine at most, and we have ten."

"We could always strap somebody to the roof of the car," Fred smirks, leaning his elbows against the counter, "I vote Charlie."

Charlie jokes, "Esteemed journalist or not, Wentworth, if you strap me to the roof of the car, I will kick you out of my house."

"I'm pretty sure they have Hiltons in the area," I say.

"I'm pretty sure that was an empty threat," Fred grins slyly at Charlie.

Charlie shakes his head mournfully, "You got me there. I was always such a wuss at threats, it's kind of humiliating."

"It's because you're being too nice," I defend him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, "You could totally kick his ass if necessary, he seems kind of weak if you ask me."

"_Hey_," Fred and Hannah both chorus, the latter with a grin on her freckled face.

"I really could kick his ass," Charlie nods, convinced, just as Mary comes trudging into the room with a duffel bag.

"We don't say _a-s-s_ in front of the children," she hisses at her husband, who looks sheepishly to me. I snort into my mug.

I finish my coffee in peace after Mary practically forces Charlie out to double-check the Yukon just before our trip. She's frightfully paranoid it'll break down in the middle of the highway and we'll all die a painful, excruciating death or something of that nature. Hannah scurries off to harass Louisa into packing up with greater speed, and Fred and I linger in the kitchen, not feeling particularly obligated to speak to one another. I'm perfectly fine with it.

I move past him and rinse out my mug, trying to replace it on its proper shelf of the glass cabinets. Fred swiftly takes it from me and places it there himself, utilizing his height.

"I could've done it myself," I mutter.

He raises an eyebrow, "Yeah, but probably with a dining room chair."

I shrug, "It still could've been done."

He looks at me questioningly, a confused smirk pulling at his mouth, "You could say thank you?"

"I could," I agree, smiling, and leave the room to get my things.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yay, I'm so glad this story is getting some love! You guys are wonderful readers and reviewers, thanks much for your feedback. Next up, the trip down the shore, the introduction of the Harvilles and slightly moody Jimmy Benwick.


	6. Padiddle and Selective Mutism

I've never been excessively fond of road trips - or else, my family was never very big on them, so something must have translated through consistently. There were never license plate games involved throughout my childhood, no trivia cards shuffled, or rounds of Padiddle. I guess we weren't a very enthusiastic bunch during excursions. So I can't relate to the excitement the Musgrove girls share with a skeptical amount of energy for seven in the morning - I owe it to the Starbucks we picked up along the way.

It doesn't last; they both fall asleep about fifteen minutes into the ride.

Charlie Musgrove was right, if you're wondering - We really _don't_ all fit into the Yukon, so we're divvied up accordingly. The Musgroves (the older pair, that is) ease our hands of Danny and Hunter and settle into their sedan, ready to follow. This leaves six of us in the Yukon. Charlie takes the wheel with Fred riding shotgun. This surprises me somewhat because I expected him to sit with Louisa - But then I consider that he probably wants to catch up. Mary and I settle into the middle row, and the girls lounge comfortably in the back, instantly digging out their respective iPods until they pretty much lose consciousness from the car's vibrations. So much for that caffeine burst.

Pretty soon, Mary takes their cue and slumps against my shoulder, snoring softly. I don't mind, I'm pretty content with just watching the scenery stream by in a blur. But before long, the quiet conversation between Fred and Charlie up front muffles and I fall asleep, completely tuning out.

I dream of my mother, freakishly enough - I haven't dreamt of her for a couple of years, at least. I dream that we're in the kitchen of our home at Kellynch, before my father had it tackily remodeled. She's got her sleeves rolled up and she's standing over a simmering pot of I-don't-know-what, but it smells heavenly. _She _smells heavenly - like basil and floral perfume, which ideally might be sketchy sounding, but I'm telling you, it's incredible. At her side is a fascinated seven year-old me with wide green eyes and a penchant for giggling. My mother grins and sprinkles rosemary and thyme into her concoction, murmuring something I can't really hear.

When I wake up, my chest feels constricted. The first thing I hear is the clacking of keys next to me, and I jolt upright, stunned beyond all reason to see Fred Wentworth seated next to me, staring in total concentration into the screen of his laptop. I gawk at him and glance at the passenger seat, where Mary's slumped over.

"She complained that the back was making her car-sick," Fred mumbles suddenly, not bothering to look away from his Macbook. Mind still hazy from my dream, it takes me a couple of seconds to realize that he is, in fact, addressing me.

"Oh," I manage, hugging my arms to myself. I register what he's said, and think it typical of my sister. After a second or two, I ask, "How long was I out for?"

Fred squints, considering, "I'd say about half an hour or something - You didn't miss much."

I nod, but he's still not looking in my direction. I wonder what he's working on, but resist the urge to scan the screen over his shoulder or inch closer. There's a very sizeable, comfortable distance between us, and I think we both would be very hesitant to break it. Instead, I settle for glancing out the window, zoning out, yet again.

"Hey Anne?" Fred suddenly asks, and the note of sincerity in his voice makes me turn back quickly. He's looking at me with some vague expression of expectation, and I blink.

"Yeah?" I breathe, unsure of what exactly he's about to bring up.

"You're sitting on my jacket," he concludes passively, and I blush. Mumbling an apology, I pull the zip-up out from under my seat and hand it wordlessly back to him. I'm relieved and disappointed all at once, and once again, I can't understand that portion of me that's upset.

After awhile, I settle into my seat with my own iPod, drowning my discomfort with some Billie Holiday and Coldplay. The next few hours pass by without a hitch - rest stops, the Musgroves stirring awake, and debates over wrong turns, and rekindled flirting between my sister's sister-in-law and my ex. Unfortunately, Padiddle never really happens for us, but then again, it's getting too light out to actually play.

* * *

Mary's never been so relieved to see a hotel in her entire life, apparently. It's _all _we hear about since we arrive to when we're dragging our luggage through the lobby and towards the elevators. She practically flings herself at the starched sheets of her mattress when we reach our rooms, moaning about the muscle she pulled in her shoulder sleeping curled up in the Yukon.

I'm bunking with the Musgrove girls for the next couple of nights, but I feel kind of selfish for having an entire queen-sized to myself while everyone else is pretty much obligated to sharing. Hannah and Louisa assure me that it's really no big deal, and we unpack quickly. There obviously isn't enough room at the Harville's shore house for the ten of us, so we've all gotten ourselves settled into a Hilton just a couple of miles from the shore itself.

Around five in the evening, we drive down to the Harville's shore house, all freshly showered and changed (some of us with that added bonus of a nap). It's a quaint, beautiful little cottage just on the Jersey shore, and I absolutely love it as soon as I see it. It's so beachy meets English countryside, and I've got the strongest urge to get it down on paper. I've brought my sketchbook in my satchel.

Ben Harville's a ridiculously pleasant, sandy-haired thirty-something who reminds me of Wilson from _House_. His wife Karen is a sweetheart too. She's also eight months preggers, and actually delights in the bumpy experience their first child has set them through so far, including the cravings, pains and waddling. I've never seen a pregnant woman so deliriously happy. You kind of just want to hug her for no apparent reason, I swear.

Seeing Ben and Fred reunite is touching, and they embrace with the feeling only old friends can really have, with laughter and beer, of course (Karen sips ginger ale). Introductions are speedily made.

"Ben, Karen," Fred laughs, raking a hand through his ruffled blonde hair. I smile - He looks so utterly happy to see him, beckoning to the lot of us, "Charlie, of course you know, and his sisters. This is his wife, Mary, and," he falters just slightly, letting his hand drop, "Anne Elliot."

Maybe I'm being sensitive as shit here, but something flickers really quickly in Ben's face, and I can't really tell what it is - Recognition maybe, and unease. Or maybe my mind's fabricating things again and making mountains out of molehills.

Another presence joins us in the foyer then in the form of Jimmy Benwick. He's good-looking, also a writer, and also selectively mute. Well, not really. He's just quiet as hell, but actually really friendly once you ease him into conversation. I'm given that opportunity at the dinner table, when I take a seat beside him.

"So," I say, pecking at my salad, "Got any hobbies, Jimmy?"

He shrugs, "Nothing that interesting."

"Hm," I grin, "Depends what you define as interesting."

This seems to break him a bit, and he smiles sheepishly, "Photography, if you must know."

"_Really_," I note, sitting upright, "I can kind of picture it, now that you mention." He's got that whole moody, mysterious thing down. Just add a backwards newsboy cap and some funky string bracelets, and you have yourself a stereotype. Or is that more fashion-y photographer?

Jimmy raises an eyebrow, his blue eyes uncertain, "I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult."

Louisa is surprisingly inching into our conversation, tossing her hair in a bored fashion. She leans in our direction sleepily, glancing at the two of us as if the discussion is much better at this end of the table. So far, Fred and Ben have got the spotlight about the ol' days at the other spectrum, and the middle is full of squawking Hunter and Danny who refuse to eat their mashed potatoes (one of whom has tried to shove some in his ear just for kicks).

I don't feel really keen on noticing, so I ask Jimmy, "Do you have a darkroom?"

"Back home at my parents' house, yep," he smiles faintly, reminiscing. "I haven't lived there for a long time, though."

"And where is back home?"

"Boston," Jimmy shrugs, looking a bit more comfortable.

"Bahstan," I massacre it, and he rolls his eyes good-humoredly, "I'm sorry, I'm not really good at resisting stereotypes."

"I don't blame you, we have a very butcher-friendly city name," Jimmy shrugs, grinning.

After dinner, we all scatter onto the beach. I love it there at night, it's just breezy enough to walk through the sand in shorts and a hoodie, and the air feels purer than anything ever inhaled. I walk with Jimmy, incidentally, because we've somehow clicked despite his reluctance to make conversation with the Musgroves. Such a shy guy, really, I wonder if he's always been like this. Ahead of us (far, far ahead of us), I spot Charlie, Fred and Ben walking with the Musgrove girls. Mary and her in-laws have stayed inside.

"So, Jimmy," I ask offhandedly, glancing out into the ocean, "What do you write for?"

"I have a column," he turns to me with a somber little smirk, as if trying to see if I'll judge him.

Instead I gasp, kind of thrilled. It's possible that the beer is making me looser, but I don't care. Instead I trill, "Like Carrie Bradshaw?"

He laughs, "I don't write about sex, no, sorry to disappoint."

"Yeah," I mutter, kicking some sand. "I'm just glad you got that reference, most guys would have been like, 'Who the hell is _that_?', you know?"

"Nah, I'm well informed," he squares his shoulders, "My girlfriend used to make me watch that show with her all the time, along with _The Nanny _reruns."

"Oh, I love that show!"

"Yeah, sure, but there's only so much Fran Drescher one can take," Jimmy laughs, brushing a hand through his black hair.

I snort, "I hear you - Nails on a chalkboard thing."

"Exactly."

"Hey!" Louisa suddenly bellows at us from a few feet away, and the rest of their group pauses to see who she's addressing. She beckons to us with her arm to catch up, and calls, "What are you two doing all the way back there? Come and join us!"

I look at Jimmy, and he shrugs.

"Race you," I challenge half-heartedly, and he glances at my shoes, or rather lack thereof.

"Unfair match, I'm wearing Nikes, and you're wearing--"

"Not Nikes," I sigh, "I see your point."

We quicken our pace anyway, and after a couple minutes of silence, Jimmy notes, "Charlie's sister is kind of out there, isn't she?"

"Lousa?" I counter, frowning, "What do you mean by out there?"

"Just kind of loud, open."

I laugh, shaking my head, "Yeah, she's always been like that. She's not bashful, to say the least." _Actually, sometimes she's borderline obnoxious, but you know, I won't sully your opinion of her just yet._

"I guess not," he smiles, kicking a pebble with the toe of his sneaker.

"Hey, so I never asked," I venture back to our conversation, "What sort of column do you write?"

"An advice column for men in _The New Yorker_," he shifts his glance to me sneakily.

"Dear Abby sort of thing?"

"I _knew _you would go there," he laughs, but he doesn't look peeved at all. I also register an itty bitty fact that's escaped him and freeze. He follows suit, frowning at me.

"Wait, New York, so you live in New York?" At his nod, I continue, "Like Fred, right?"

"Near him, yeah." We continue walking, "Ironically, we don't see much of each other. He's tied down all the time with work."

"So I've heard," I murmur, "Quite the success story."

"Yeah, but he's earned it," Jimmy shrugs, "He worked his way up through some really shitty publications to get to where he's at. Endured a lot of criticism, and shutdowns, and ridiculous hours, but didn't lose hope. A lot of guys in the business have just quit when it got tough, but he wanted it. He's always wanted it. He wanted to prove himself."

"To whom?" I ask quietly.

Jimmy considers this for a moment, before shrugging, "Himself, I imagine - but who knows?"


	7. Irony's a Bit of a Bitch

The next day, Ben and Karen cart Jimmy, Charlie, Fred, the Musgrove girls and I into town for a day at an amusement park. It's a local, slightly ancient carnival, with a go-cart track that reminds me of Jolly Roger's in Ocean City, Maryland (if not more rickety). Mary, the boys and her in-laws have retreated further into town for some shopping (much to Mr. Musgrove's chagrin), leaving us all considerably giddy in their absence. The weather's quite balmy too.

Karen, poor Karen, has to sit out for around ninety-percent of the rides. Out of sympathy, I remain bench buddies with her for the first couple, the foremost of which is The Claw, a giant, foot-dangling rotator that twirls so rapidly that I'm glad to have parted ways. I'm pretty sure I would've blown chunks otherwise.

The mother-to-be props her feet up on the bench's arm beside me, leaning her back against mine, sipping a monstrous blue slurpee. Reclining her head back a little, her freckled face squints at me, "Say, Anne, just let me know if I'm too heavy to be leaning against you, okay?"

"Don't be silly, Karen, you're fine."

She grins, sighing, "I'm practically a whale now."

"No, not _whale_ per say - maybe something cuter, like-"

"A grizzly bear?" Karen asks, letting her shades down a little to wink at me.

"Better," I laugh, shrugging.

"Hm," she reclines her head back again, slurping away. I get lost in my own daydreams, watching a group of young kids scurry by squabbling about balloon colors and who has whose. She notes that I'm more pensive today than usual, and I turn to her.

"I'm a daydreamer, what can I say?" I smile, examining a strand of my hair absently.

She tsks, "I hear you," and then smoothes her palm affectionately over her rounded belly, grinning, "I hope this kid can handle my zoning out."

I laugh, "You too?" At her nod, I ask, "Do you guys know the sex of the baby?"

"We want to be surprised," Karen rolls her eyes, straightening. She faces me completely, her tawny eyes peeved, "Correction, _Ben_ wants to be surprised - I just went along with it."

"Surprised, you say," I chew the inside of my lip, crossing my legs so I sit Indian style on the bench. I wonder if he wants a boy or a girl.

She gives me a funny look, "Easy there, Yoda - What are we thinking about?"

I laugh, shaking my head. I love Karen's constant use of "we" in her dialect - maybe it's because I love the fact that she's so warm and open even if you've only known her for a day or two. Not many people are like that. Or else, I haven't been acquainted with many. But the Harvilles so far, I'm really glad to have met.

"Got any names picked out?" I ask conversationally.

Karen grins, "We have names that we _don't_ want picked out."

"Let's hear them."

"I think Topanga and Chewbaca top the list," she nods mournfully. I grin, just as we spot our group returning from the exit ramp of The Claw. Hannah looks faintly green, and Louisa's got her arm propped over her shoulder, murmuring to her with an encouraging smile.

I cock my head, thinking, _There's that sisterly affection I've been expecting._

But in a moment, I see Lou glance over her shoulder to toss a winning grin at Fred who lurks near, and I instantly know it's for show, to make him see that she's some sort of caring, compassionate creature on top of everything else completely overdone. I shrug off my judgments - whatever, I don't really give a shit about either.

That's harsh. I might take that back later.

"Hey, hey," Ben Harville greets us, leaning down to press a kiss to his wife's cheek. She smiles and he helps her waddling self up.

"Hold my slurpee, Miss Anne," Karen hands it to me, and rises onto her feet, sighing, "God, I'm _huge_."

"You're adorable," Ben presses, smiling. There's so much love there, that we all could really kind of evaporate just witnessing it. Not gooey, crap love squirted out of a big ol' tube of Fake, but real, genuine, no-bullshit-here love.

It takes me a moment to register that our group is missing its eighth member. I spin on my heel, looking around, "Where's Jimmy?"

"Puking in the mens' room," Fred winces, rubbing the back of his head.

Karen gawks, "Top-notch job there, gentlemen, leaving your pukee by himself."

"It's not like he's drunk," Louisa defends them, crossing her arms over her chest. But Ben shakes his head, agreeing with his wife, and disappears towards the restrooms nearby. After a few minutes, Jimmy joins us at last, looking quite normal, if not a bit ashen.

"Weak stomach," he apologizes with an embarrassed grimace when we start on our way towards the food court. I nod sympathetically, gesturing to Hannah, and he spots her, "She's better than me, actually - Didn't throw up or anything."

"Oh, it may be coming," Hannah grimaces, moving a hand to her abdomen. She casts a wistful glance over to the restrooms again with a pained expression, "Anne, Lou, come with me?"

Louisa groans, but we three excuse ourselves for "Just a bit, we promise", and dash off to the restrooms.

* * *

"That was delayed," I note with surprising cheeriness when Hannah grips the toilet seat wearily and empties the contents of her stomach out. I hold her hair back, leaning against the stall, hearing Louisa's sighs of impatient irritation just outside.

"I'm sorry," Hannah sniffs, and I help get her cleaned up. Outside, Louisa and I help her wash her face, and her sister is nice enough (for once) to reapply her make-up with a steady and talented hand, actually. I sit on the sink counter, watching Louisa retouch Hannah's cover-up with quick, nimble fingers. Her color is starting to return too, and she catches my observations in the mirror, raising an eyebrow.

"What is it?" she asks.

"You're just looking better, that's all - Are you well enough to stay here?"

"Yeah, sure, sure," she nods quickly, and Louisa gives her a look. I raise an eyebrow - Is there seriously still a competition for Fred Wentworth? I thought that was abandoned by now. Louisa must be thinking the same thing, because she adds conversationally:

"Hannah, have you heard from Chase Hayes lately?"

The expression on her sister's face is amusing - it passes from panic to slight happiness to impassive skepticism in a moment. It's all faintly hysterical, and confusing.

"_No_," she sniffs pointedly.

The name's a little familiar to me, so I ask about him, receiving a winning, smiley explanation from doe-eyed Louisa.

"Anne, sweetie," she takes my hand, "Chase could practically be Hannah's soul mate! They went out _all _last year. He's such a cutie - tall, smart, in a rock band. He seriously wrote her like, five love ballads or something. But she broke up with him a couple months ago, and he's been pining ever since."

Hannah swats at her, "He has _not_." But she's blushing, either from anger or embarrassment, one can't be sure - maybe it's both.

But Lou's all in rapture, sighing, "I'm surprised he hasn't called since you've been here. I know he left like, forty-five messages on our answering machine since graduation."

Hannah grumbles something under her breath, but you get the impression that she still digs this guy, and she hates Louisa for bringing it up. She practically gives her the stink-eye while applying a couple of coats of mascara.

I smile at her, tucking a black curl behind her ear, "You still like him, Han?"

"I don't know," she sighs, "I broke it off because he got too clingy - but yeah, I guess there are still feelings there."

"Why don't you give him a call tonight?" Louisa suggests, brushing her auburn bangs out of her eyes. After Hannah reluctantly agrees, I can't help but silently smirk at how hopeful Lou now looks, practically venting off her relief that her sister has no more intent for snooping around Fred Wentworth. What might have been irritating before is kind of just amusing now, and I'm happy it's gotten this way. I feel lighter now, seriously. I feel like I can honestly say that I'm free of Fred Wentworth - Louisa can have him if she wants. It's such a strange, airy sentiment, but it's liberating.

On our way out, Hannah gives me a skeptical glance, "Hey, what about _your_ love life?"

"What about it?"

"Cozying up to Jimmy, huh? You guys are cute together - Maybe you can get some action this week," she grins, and then emits a squeak halfway between laughter and screaming as I chase her around the ladies' room.

* * *

Despite Hannah's snide, suggestive quips, I really _am _hanging out with Jimmy Benwick quite a lot. We're frequent ride partners, I realize, after Ben points this out while we're waiting in line to go on the Ferris wheel. Karen (bless her), is reading a _People_ magazine just outside in the waiting area, Hannah seated beside her with an iPod. We've been taking "Karen Shifts" out of common courtesy, despite her fervent insisting that we not bother.

The line progresses slowly, and Jimmy himself is out of earshot, conversing quietly with Charlie up ahead. Fred lingers just in front of us with Louisa, talking about who-knows-what. Ben turns to me with a serious expression on his face, uncharacteristic for the warm, generally bubbly type he is. I raise an eyebrow without really meaning to, propping my shades up.

"Anne," he says, "I just want to say thanks."

I blink, removing the straw from the Coke I'm sipping from my mouth, "What for?"

"For being such a great friend to Jimmy the past couple of days - It really means a lot. You've gotten him to open up more than he has in the past few months, and it's wonderful."

I'm a little confused. I mean, I know the guy is shy, but isn't he being treated a bit like a charity case among his peers here? I share this with Ben, and he rubs the back of his neck unsurely and begins to explain accordingly.

"Jimmy's a great guy, but he used to be more sociable before. See, six months ago, he lost his girlfriend in a car accident."

The straw drops from my mouth completely, "Oh God."

"Yeah," Ben sighs, "They were very close, together for almost five years. He's been very closed up ever since, and didn't make it a point to talk to anybody really, not even me or Fred, and we're a pretty close-knit bunch from our days working together," Ben takes a tentative step forward, "Carried on like a machine - Working six days a week, living in total silence."

"Wow," I murmur, shaking my head. I glance back to Jimmy, smiling easily in the company of Charlie, sharing a private joke.

"He seems to be getting along wonderfully with you- I'm just happy you're as sweet and open as you are; I think you're the first friend he's really clicked with in a long, long time," Ben smiles meaningfully, placing a hand on my shoulder.

I blush, "Thanks, Ben. I just, I had no idea."

Ben nods, sighing, and then raises his head as he's called by Charlie up ahead. He apologizes and excuses himself, and I'm left alone to my own thoughts over this new sliver of information, considering it from all aspects. My reverie is interrupted by Fred, however, who has inched away from Louisa gradually and is now at my side.

"So, now you know, huh?" he asks, shoving his hands into his jean pockets.

I throw him a skeptical glance, "Eavesdrop much?"

"Guilty," he smiles for good measure.

I sigh, swinging my arms as the line progresses slowly, and we round a corner, "It's terrible."

"Yeah," Fred murmurs, his dark eyes darting towards Jimmy. "It's relieving that he now has you to talk to. He needs more good people in his life."

I'm aware of the compliment, and look down for a moment as silence fills the space between us temporarily. So, apparently he still believes that I'm a good soul, and maybe not a frigid bitch? It's comforting. I cast him a sidelong glance, noting that he looks perfectly calm and friendly. His animosity has temporarily evaporated, and I wonder if maybe we've finally thrown in the towel? Is this us finally embarking on a good note, or am I being too idealistic?

Vaguely, I'm attentive to the fact that there's something distinct I wanted to share with him, but for the life of me, I can't remember - Something I had talked about with Cathy a couple of days past. But Fred interjects with unexpected pleasantries.

"Sleep well?"

"Yeah," I shrug, thinking about the accommodations. The room's been pleasant enough, and I've gotten enough sleep -- I jump, suddenly remembering, and he flinches, wide-eyed. "Sorry! I just remembered something I wanted to tell you."

"Shoot, then."

I realize there's no use just tiptoeing around the topic, so I plunge in with, "Your sister's renting out my house in the next couple of months."

He halts mid step then, his brown eyes wide. I can almost hear the wheels of his mind churning and, with a creased brow, he asks, "Sophie's renting out _your _house?"

"Yeah--"

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair briefly, "I think this is just irony coming back to bite us in the ass; as if there are seriously _no_ other homes in Kellynch county."

"I know, right," I mumble, amused that my thoughts mirror his own. "Hey, why Kellynch?"

"Hm? Oh," Fred squares his shoulders, "Her husband, David, is working on a year-long project for Bristol-Myers Squibb, and it's the only area they liked close enough. Apparently they were drawn to its low crime rates and squeaky clean suburbia."

I snort, "Hm. Yeah, that's irony for you. How is Sophie, by the way?"

"Good, good," Fred notes, "Still eccentric and unethical and new-age-y. But I think you've always liked that about her. She's into feng shui now."

"Dear God," I grin, shaking my head. Sweet, shrewd, pixie-haired, yoga-obsessed Sophie; I think I've always regarded her as the older sister I always wanted instead of Elizabeth. She was always just such a passionate wildcard, such an eclectic personality that would add color to our bland, beige family.

"Hey," Fred says, finally asking the inevitable, "Why is your father renting out your home in Kellynch?"

Here it is - the embarrassment, brace yourself. Hesitating, wringing my hands, glancing away, I quietly admit that we've slid into debt after quite some time because of my father and sister's frivolous spending habits, resulting in total anarchy - In a few less words, but it still doesn't keep that knowing, twinkling gleam from Fred's Wentworth soulful (or soul_less_) dark eyes.

"Bummer," he responds cheerfully, his mouth pulled upward into a smirk.

"Thanks for concealing your delight."

"Sorry," Fred grins wryly without seeming apologetic at all. He shrugs his shoulders airily, "I'm just starting to appreciate this whole irony thing a bit more. After all your family's kvetching and moaning about careers and poor futures and all, and now your father himself is in the toilet."

I roll my eyes, "Fred, it's not like it's some secret that you can't stand my family, honestly. Can we just get past that already?"

"Can you blame me?" he asks seriously, and I shift uncomfortably.

"Well, no."

"There's your answer."

And just when I thought things were beginning to smooth themselves over (if at all), that prickle of a grudge is raised from the dust. Before I have time to press it back into place, Louisa has discovered that there's an entire conversation that has been occurring behind her without her knowledge, and she promptly whisks one, Frederick Wentworth back to her side to talk about more pleasant topics.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So, maybe you guys have noticed that there's been some ridiculous fiddling going on with this fic's title -- this one, is even tentative, so be warned that so me more fiddling may occur! Titles are pretty big for me, but I've never had as much trouble as I have with this one! It'll be settled soon, rest assured. Anyway, thanks for reading, please review!


	8. Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

When our group finally branches off and heads back to the Hilton, we're weary and exhausted in only the happiest sense - the kind that includes adrenaline-pumping rides, vomiting (for some), and disgusting amounts of cotton candy and popcorn that's ninety percent butter, ten percent kernel. We're in virtual bliss. I finally stumble out of the bathroom (Lou and Hannah beat me to the shower forty-five minutes ago) with my makeshift towel turban, pinstriped pajama bottoms and my old gray softball tee, feeling refreshed. Practically collapsing onto my mattress, I breathe in the starched clean, distinctly "hotel" scent of our room.

Hotels do seriously have a certain smell. I don't understand why nobody really gets this - Hannah and Louisa have already submitted their teenaged eye-rolls to this very suggestion earlier. What gives? The girls in question linger around the room to their own business. Lou's beside me on the other queen-sized, clacking away on her laptop, perusing Facebook. I lean over to spot Hannah just on the balcony, her phone perched between shoulder and ear.

"Who's she talking to?" I ask her sister.

Louisa smirks and twirls her long, auburn braid in a self-satisfied manner, "Chase Hayes."

"Bathroom Chase?" _No way, she's good -- scary-good._

At her chipper nod, I jump to my knees to inspect the scene further. Hannah's got this shy, uncharacteristic grin on her face as she's talking, not that I can hear her words behind the glass of the sliding door. I guess I'd call it a flirting expression. Damn, these girls bounce back fast - I'm a little envious of it, considering I've only had say, _one_ absolutely stellar relationship, and I'm still carrying around the hurt four years later. I check myself. _No, I'm not - I'm not carrying anything around. That's ancient history, right?_

_Right!_

Oh, shut up.

Sighing, I nestle inside my covers, not bothering to switch off my bedside lamp just yet. So, maybe, just _maybe_ Fred got to me this afternoon. I really thought we could move on, maybe even be friends (with ample months of practice), before he metaphorically stomped on my family and grinned like a little bastard about their newfound poverty. Well, not _poverty_, that's extreme, but less-than-perfect financial situation. I turn on my side with a huff, thinking that despite the new addition to our company (the lovely Harvilles and somberly sweet Jimmy Benwick), I wish there were somebody or some_thing _else happening here to distract me from Fred Wentworth.

The next couple days are a stagnant collection of summery restaurants and time spent at the Harvilles. It's that Thursday that stirs things up a bit.

* * *

"I bet I could hock a loogey the size of your head from here," Louisa challenges, auburn hair whipping against her face in the wind. She's leaning gingerly, tanned legs outstretched, and she kind of reminds me of Julia Roberts in _Pretty Woman_. "No hands, no hands!" I half-expect her to say.

"Charming," Fred, relaxation and calm itself, leans delicately along the flat base of the rocks. He's got an eyebrow raised, watching her, but not very carefully. Of course, you'd have to be some sort of dolt to fling yourself from the choppy high-rise of rocks into the ocean below, but Lou's a bright girl deep down.

I sit just a couple feet away on my towel, preggers Karen (who has a fond affinity for calling me Yoda now) reclining by my side. She's got a trashy Danielle Steel novel in her grasp, and I've been assaulting her ear non-stop about the absolute horrors of that poorly written Queen of Soft-Core Porn since we arrived at this secluded little bit of beach heaven.

She props herself up on her elbows, sighing in exasperation, "Yoda, you're missing the entire point of beach reads. It's _supposed_ to be utter garbage, or else you really can't extract any joy from it."

There's no convincing this woman. Obviously, I'm in store for some arduous book-shopping come holiday season for Karen - book rehab, if you will. She snorts at this idea and ruffles my hair, like I'm a petulant child, and we laugh. It's lovely here, just by their home. The draft is a little stronger up here on this concave hill, which is pleasant enough, but the rocks present a problem for their child-to-be come summertime. It's dangerous unless you're incredibly careful.

"Wake Jimmy up, will you?" Karen probes, "I need him to go get me a Corona."

I snort at the joke but glance beside me where outstretched Jimmy has recently fallen asleep. I can't say I'm surprised - he looked incredibly beat-up and tired from the moment I saw him this morning. Maybe the ocean and our conversation lulled him to unconsciousness.

"He was up all night writing," Fred informs Karen, squinting against the wind, "Gets an idea and _boom_. I envy it - I'd pick sleep first."

"Don't act like you haven't pulled all-nighters, Fred Wentworth," Karen grins slyly, glaring at him from over her shades. "Ben and I have taken you in _loads_ of times before you got settled down in Manhattan, and contrary to popular belief, we _could_ hear that little _clack-clack-clack_ of your computer for hours on end."

"Damn, discovered," he laughs.

"Even in _college _when you roomed with us during that apartment situation, you were still such a night owl," Karen turns to me to explain, "Ben and I were engaged and living together nearby at that point, so we took this young'un in when a pipe burst in his apartment."

"What year was that?" Fred asks, scratching the back of his head. Beside him, Louisa stares off behind her into the distance, not very interested.

"It had to be sophomore year at least - summer of your sophomore year, because that's when you started interning for Henry Musgrove's paper," Karen says, squinting upward, "August, I think."

I stare down into my lap in thought, remembering that we had broken up a month prior. I wonder if he remembers it as such.

"It probably _was_ August," Fred murmurs, brushing some sand from his shorts. "I didn't sleep much that month."

"I know -- I would say it was because of all that workload you got screwed over with as an intern, but Ben let slip that you had just broken up with a girl you were in love with," Karen shrugs, looking sympathetic. Lou is all curious attention now, looking between them silently.

"I'm pretty sure it was the workload," he tries half-heartedly, but he's looking down and _blushing_, no less.

"I'm sure it was," Karen teases. I'm glad nobody's looking in my direction - I can feel my cheeks start to grow warm too. I can't bring myself to look at him, I really can't. But the quiet moment doesn't last.

Karen sighs and leans across me to poke Jimmy's torso. He flinches, yelping, and Fred and Karen share a collaborative giggle or two at his expense. Jimmy sighs and sits up, brushing some sand from his t-shirt. He squints around and gets his bearings.

"Leave it up to any Harville to be hospitable," he sighs and Karen sticks her tongue out at him. It's all giggles and laughs until he spots the author of the book she's reading and mock-gasps, decrying it for all that it is, just as I had before.

I shake my head mournfully, "Been there, tried that - She doesn't take good book recommendations."

"I could cry," Jimmy sighs, taking Karen's wrists, "You're married to one of the greatest journalists I've ever known!"

"So?" she snorts.

"Karen, _please _let Anne take you to Barnes & Noble someday," Fred begs, "She'll get you all the appropriate literature and relieve you from this nightmare of," he pauses, turning to me, "What was the word?"

"Soft-core porn?"

"Exactly."

"Lay off, all this criticizing and I may go into early labor," she warns jokingly, her eyes narrowed, "I'm sure there's a health hazard there."

"You mean trashing your favorite author equals premature birth," Jimmy states blankly.

"She's pregnant, she can _make_ rules," I defend her.

"Thanks, Yoda."

Louisa suddenly interrupts us and stands, stretching her long limbs, "Anybody want to go for a run with me?"

Everybody seems pretty comfortable where they're at and politely decline. She looks put-out and begs Fred with a long perfected puppy-dog gleam to her eye that's probably still used to milk an allowance from her father. But Fred doesn't take the bait; he seems content with present company.

"Fine," she sighs, stalking away from us, probably back to the house.

After a second or two, Karen asks, "Do we offend?"

Fred grins at her, "Always the charmer, aren't you?"

But Jimmy looks a little uneasy, looking over his shoulder, "I don't think she went back to the house."

"She probably did, her sister's in there," Fred says easily, hopping down from the rocks onto Karen's towel, even after she attempts to shoo him off to no avail. We settle into cushy silence again as Jimmy lays back down and Fred revives that bright light that is Danielle Steele-bashing, much to Karen's annoyance. Meanwhile, I dig out my sketchbook again, glancing through. I've been itching to sketch this area since we arrived.

"Yoda's got talent," Karen grins with glee, clapping her hands just beside me. I jump, snapping my sketchbook shut instinctively. "No, no, no!" she probes, snatching it out of my hands, "I'm being totally nosy, but I want to see, and I'm pregnant."

"I like how she says 'I'm pregnant', like it ends all arguments," Fred tells me, shaking his head.

"It does," I shrug, smiling. He returns the smile and for a moment, things shift back into old normalcy -- we might even actually like each other in this sparse little second. But it passes soon enough. Fred sighs and gets up to stretch, looking out toward the ocean while Karen rifles through the few pages I've done so far. I've captured a rough sketch of Jimmy's profile (upon our arrival), and the sepias and orchids curling around the balcony back at our hotel. She flips some more and finds the fuzziest of the sketches. It's another profile, a man's, but his features are too indistinct to make him out to be someone I recognize. I started sketching him back at the hotel, either from memory or what, I can't tell.

"Who is this?" she asks quietly.

"I don't know," I shrug, "Sometimes I just start drawing somebody and they take shape later on."

"I think I know whose shape this'll take," she tells me knowingly, "This is going to be a great portrait."

"Don't read into this so much," I laugh, "It's just a sketch."

"Maybe, maybe not," she grins, but I don't really understand where she's coming from. Either way, she hands my sketchbook back to me wordlessly and I slip it back into my satchel. Suddenly, Fred turns to us from his standing position, pointing a few yards away to the opposite end of the rocky cliff he sat by before.

"Please tell me that isn't Louisa."

Jumping to our feet (well, Karen takes a little more effort), we squint towards where he's pointing. There's a shape of a girl there, looking quite common except for her distinct red hair. By the time Jimmy, Fred and I finish sprinting over there ("Can you _please_ just check, I'm getting paranoid" Karen begs), there's no question about it. Louisa grins at us, looking a little too pompous and confident as she saunters at the edge of the steep rocks.

"Glad to see someone decided to join the party!" she flips her hair back.

"Lou, _what_ are you doing?" I ask.

"I want to try climbing down," she shrugs, "I went camping with my friend Hayley once, and I swear I have a gift for it."

"You'd probably need a harness and a professional, do you realize that?" Fred asks, his expression peeved but concerned.

"Whatever, I can do it," she scoffs at him, determined.

"Louisa, don't be so immature," Fred suddenly snaps, and even I'm a little surprised by his tone. I can't blame him in the slightest though, and Louisa's glaring daggers at him. And suddenly, I _get_ it. I understand why she's doing this. She felt excluded earlier, and wants to be the center of attention again - wants to be the center of _his _attention again. She's afraid that he's gotten tired of her, and wants to do something daring and risky to reel him back.

"Lou," I beg, beckoning, "Look, if you really want to, we'll go over to a professional rock-climbing course or something where they'll hook you up to a harness and everything. But this, this isn't safe, no matter how skilled you are."

Jimmy stands mutely nearby, looking at her steadily.

"It'll be _fine_," she rolls her eyes, as if we're the idiots not grasping this, "Watch me."

"Louisa-"

But suddenly, you couldn't have even lurched fast enough. She leaps off of the edge with the agility of a cat and we forget to breathe.

* * *

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

"I really want coffee," Jimmy grimaces, stretching against the hard plastic of his seat. I sigh, a migraine pulsing at my temples.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

I tap my foot against the linoleum in rhythm with the clock, feeling anxiety eat away at my nerves. If somebody's nerves are shot now, however, it's definitely Fred. He's carrying twice as much guilt as I am. Beside me, he's a bedraggled mess - slightly bloody, sleeves scuffed, his hands pressed flatly against his face. He won't let me touch his wrist where he cut himself along the rocks trying to leap after her. He hardly speaks.

We haven't told anybody yet that Louisa's in the emergency room. Only the Harvilles were back at the house with us, and we've been giving them updates as they come. We had to be careful around Karen when she found out, but there was no use crawling around the news that she was badly hurt. And Hannah burst out from the house in wild hysteria when Jimmy ran back to give the news. She sits beside Fred now, flipping and closing her cell phone open and shut an irritating amount of times.

Finally, _finally _our doctor (not ours, obviously, but a man introduced as Dr. Etheridge) wheels about, a forty-something with kind eyes and a reassuring smile. He grips his clipboard, and I think of those overly dramatized medical shows. But for all that nail-chewing anxiety, he supplies us with:

"Louisa will be fine - she came to pretty quickly, which is a good sign. Her left arm is broken, as well as her leg, but both are clean breaks. Obviously she's a little banged up too, a nasty scrape on her forehead, a few bruises. But she's very lucky." He goes through a few more technicalities, the basis of how long she'll need to stay and other necessities, but it all blurs behind the significant fact that she'll be okay.

"Thank God," Hannah breathes beside me, leaping up, "May I see her?"

"Actually, she wants to speak to somebody named Fred first," Dr. Etheridge glances about, his gaze originally finding Jimmy's. Fred stands quickly, a little shaken but totally alert. I kind of just want to hug him, _anything_, he looks miserable despite the good news. But he follows our doctor down the winding hall and disappears for a good ten minutes and then he returns, informing Hannah that her sister wishes to see her.

"Anne," Jimmy's up, digging out his cell phone, "Do you want me to go over to the hotel and let her parents know?"

"It's fine, I'll take care of that," I assure him, before a thought smashes me headlong, "Oh fuck, one car."

"Jim, I'll go with Anne back to the Hilton to tell the Musgroves," Fred's in control again, his palm outstretched for the keys, "Can I borrow your car?"

"Sure thing - It's a bit beat-up though, so you might need to really gun the engine," he warns.

"I know it's a piece of shit, I'll work through it," Fred assures him, and we're off.

* * *

Jimmy's old Maxima really _is_ a piece of shit, but it's what's getting us from A to B. If I were in a more easy-going mood, I would affectionately dub it "Wheezy" for that suspicious sound that's coming from under the hood, but jokes are the last thing to be cracked at this point.

Fred seems less tense than before, but we're still riding in dead silence, and I can tell his mind is working a mile a minute. I've finally gotten him to clean up a bit though, after he nearly flung himself in after her. All he had managed to do was brush his arm across the rocks before Jimmy and I yanked him back by the collar, but it was still a slightly garish scrape.

Desperate times, desperate measures and all that - I don't blame him for trying to leap after her. But at least she's okay. Sighing, I settle into my seat and close my eyes, debating over the best way to word my explanation to the Musgroves so they don't _totally _throw a shit-fit. Maybe I should start it with, "Louisa's fine, first off, but she kind of well, threw herself off a cliff. And okay, she's not really _fine_, but she's not dead."

Yeah, maybe Fred should explain.

"Is it the Hilton Garden Inn or the Beach Front?" the man in question snaps me back into reality (thanks, I want to say), watching the road steady with a set of determinedness to his jaw.

"Garden Inn," I say, "And I can see the whites of your knuckles, you might want to loosen your grip on that steering wheel before it breaks."

He emits an even sigh and shakes his head, "I just lost it - flat-out _panicked_, Anne. It's all my fault."

"Look, the Blame Game isn't doing anybody any good right now," I inform him, "It was her decision, what's done is done, but she's going to be okay. Just focus on letting her parents know at this point."

"You're right," he nods briskly, and I'm not used to seeing him this bent-out-of-shape, "You're always so right. I wish I were as clear-headed as you in situations like this."

"Don't be so hard on yourself."

"No, seriously," Fred's shaking his head, his dark eyes serious when they find mine, "The way you handled that, the way you got us moving. Jimmy and I just stood there for what seemed like _eons_, and you were the first to spring into action like, immediately, with the ambulance, with getting down there, with _everything_."

"You make me sound like a superhero."

"Give yourself some credit now and then, Anne, sometimes we forget to do that," he murmurs.

We settle into silence for the duration of the ride, left to our own thoughts and anxieties. I wonder what his conversation with Louisa was about back at the hospital, but I don't really want to probe at it. I'm guessing a strictly apology-laden conversation, but a nosy portion of me wants to know what's become of their well, relationship, I suppose you'd call it. But right now, there are more important matters at hand.

We arrive and, in a rushed exhale, explain to the Musgroves (_all _of them) once they're summoned about Louisa's accident at the cliff near the Harville's home today. Fred, bless him, for all his neurotic worrying, assuages nearly all worrisome inquiries and has the calmest, most therapeutic way of speaking to them I've heard in awhile. And he says that _I_ know how to take care of a situation.

After our job is done (a couple more cars missing from the parking lot now of course, now that the Musgroves are off), we take a seat at the curb of the rotunda just outside the entrance to the hotel - probably to settle down and take a breather, or maybe just because we really don't know where we should be right now.

For all the chaos, it's really _such_ a nice night. My ideal summer night, actually, complete with that balmy breeze and crickets and cicadas and everything, and it's all such a waste today. I sigh and nestle my head in my hands, wanting to laugh at it all. In fact, I do.

Fred raises an eyebrow, "What's so funny?"

"Oh, I don't know," I sigh, "Sometimes you just have to laugh when there's nothing to laugh about."

"It helps," he smiles, and already the air feels a little lighter. Looking out in front of him, he rests on his elbows, "I guess our trip's cut short now."

"Guess so," I note.

"I planned to leave in a day or two anyway to go back home, but still, I wish it were on a better note," he scratches his head.

"You like it there?"

"Sorry?"

"Back home, Manhattan," I emphasize.

"It's okay," he shrugs, mid-sigh, "I miss Philadelphia, to tell you the truth."

"I guess I'm living there when I get back," I run my fingers through my hair, raking it back into a messy bun, "So foreign to me." I'm not looking forward to abandoning Kellynch in favor of downtown Philly just yet. I'm not looking forward to living back with Dad and Liz either.

He gives me a wistful smirk, "You should visit Sophie. I'm sure she'd like that."

I give him a look that clearly says, "Would _you_?" and silence settles around us once more.

"I should head back to the hospital, drop off Jimmy's car," Fred stands, and he offers me a hand to help me up. This time I take it, remembering for a second the sequoia tree. God, _that_ seems like eons ago. But then again, nothing's really changed that drastically since. Drama just has a habit of stretching time.

"You'll be okay here?" he asks.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," I assure him, brushing some dirt from my jeans. We look at each other for awhile, and he opens and closes his mouth a couple times. I can't really read his eyes, but I could swear that he wants to tell me something. He's just impossible to decipher.

"Listen, I'm probably leaving either tomorrow or the day after, so," Fred says instead, a little too quickly, and the thought hangs in the air. But I understand what he's saying.

"Yeah," I nod, "Um."

"I'll see you around, Anne."

"Take care."

And then he's off, walking back towards the car in wide-legged strides. I watch Jimmy's old beat-up piece-of-shit Maxima (Wheezy) whirl around the rotunda and disappear into the street, wondering if I actually _will_ see Fred Wentworth around. Then I consider the likelihood and realize that it's probably for the best even if I don't.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Fact-to-fiction? -- Jimmy's car, the craptastic Maxima named Wheezy? It's actually my older brother's car in real life, and just as beat-up. Actually, it's _mine _now, so I wanted to give it a tiny fraction of a cameo. I somehow love and hate it all at once. Anyway!

Yikes, this baby went through a hell of a rewrite. I had even introduced my William Elliot character (fair warning, his name will go through a change here) but I didn't like the way it turned out -- He's coming though, rest assured. I was so determined to have Louisa's accident occur later too, but alas, the timing just felt _right _here, so I don't really regret it. Otherwise, I just want to send out a gigantic thank you (thank you!) to so many of you, including those of you who review anonymously so I don't really have a chance to personally correspond. But yeah, you guys are wonderful, thank you so much for your feedback! Please review!


	9. Bygones Bring Company

It's the strangest thing when you're suddenly thrust back into your regular, bland-as-oatmeal life and you have no idea how you got there. Of course, not _everybody_ can have strange encounters with uncomfortable exes, or daring relatives who fling themselves off of cliff edges. But now that I'm surrounded by Kellynch monotony, I'm starting to miss the chaos that surrounded Uppercross and the Jersey Shore, despite the fact that it was panic-inducing for a good percentage of our strange little group of in-laws and friends. _Here_, it's -- well, unbearably lonely and boring.

Plus, I might also be miserable because my bedroom looks like a tomb in all its empty glory. I sit in the center, Indian style, filling my fifth cardboard box with the contents of my bedside drawer - little trinkets and souvenirs I forgot existed. The only thing that lingers in this room I've had for what feels like centuries (besides _me_, of course), is a small, mahagony writing desk and the mattress I slept on last night.

Elizabeth, Princess of Kellynch, has her dirtied flats propped up against my footboard and clean sheets. I clear my throat, wondering if she'll take the hint. But she just flips her strawberry blonde hair back past her shoulders and turns a page of the tabloid magazine she's got unfurled against my pillow.

We don't talk much, Liz and me. In fact, this morning's conversation kind of went something like:

Grunt. "_Hey_."

Double-grunt. "Hey."

"You packing?"

"Yep."

Grunt. "'Kay."

It's actually the farthest we've gotten in awhile, but something about this day suddenly gives her incentive to strike up a proper conversation. "So," she yawns, "How _was_ Uppercross anyway? Was Mary the usual kill-joy?"

I shrug, lacking the energy to have an actual conversation with her, or gang-up on Mary behind her back, which has always been easy fodder for Elizabeth. She smirks, mistaking my silence for the affirmative, but I couldn't really care less at this point.

I actually _miss_ Mary and the Musgroves - the Harvilles, especially. It's been precisely one month since I left the Jersey shore, and three weeks since I left Uppercross. And the company back at Kellynch is a lot more dismal. Besides, the added necessity to pack up my belongings into dozens of boxes just adds to the general delight. There are moving men trickling in and out of our home every day now, gradually moving furniture. By the time the week is out, we'll be gone.

I sigh audibly, stretching masking tape from its roll to seal my trinket box. Liz rolls over and raises an eyebrow, "God, what crawled into your ass and _died_?"

"Thanks, Liz."

"Seriously," she laughs, stretching, "You come back from Uppercross looking like somebody ran over your kitten or something."

"Yeah, okay," I mumble, picking a dust particle from my shirt. _Just go back to reading _Us Weekly_, yeah? How are Brangelina doing?_

Before the conversation can be lengthened, my father treads in the room, inspecting the bare walls with a sense of satisfaction I can't understand at this point. He's got his thumbs hooked into the belt hoops of his slacks, and he flashes us a sunny smile.

"Daddy," Liz sighs, sitting on her heels, "Anne's _depressed_ - Like, seriously, it's really annoying."

He arches an eyebrow skeptically at me, "Anne?"

"Dad, please don't take her seriously."

He rolls his eyes, rubbing the stubble of his beard, "I hate it when you girls argue. It gives me a headache," he pauses, inspecting my collection of boxes, "Anne, are you honestly not finished yet?"

"I'm getting there."

He sighs sharply, clearly pissed, "How much time can I _give_ you?"

I don't say anything. So maybe I'm purposely being slow just to spend more time in the house - It's a lost hope, but maybe if I'm not finished packing by the week's end, our stay could be extended. Of course, I don't share this with anybody.

"So," Dad drawls, trying to fluff his hair over his receding hairline through my window's reflection, "I heard from Mary this morning that her sister-in-law had an accident while you were visiting?"

"Yeah," I cross my arms over my chest, "She had a tumble into some rocks cliff side at the Jersey shore. Broke her arm and leg, got banged up pretty badly."

"Idiot," Liz laughs.

Okay, though I'm not exactly thrilled on Louisa Musgrove's behalf, I wouldn't stoop so low as to be as unfeeling as Elizabeth. I roll my eyes.

"Those girls always seemed really insensible," Dad drawls in a bored tone, straightening the collar of his shirt, "Anything else happen of interest?"

"Not really," I cough, but he whirls around, his curiosity peaked. "Uh, well, Fred Wentworth was visiting too."

Dad pauses, turning on his heel, "Fred _Wentworth_? You mean that boy you dated years back?"

"Yeah - he's a friend of the Musgroves."

He looks skeptical, "You didn't actually _talk_ to him, did you?"

"Well," I pause, "Not in so many words. I'm not exactly his favorite person in the world at this point."

Pop looks smugly satisfied, "Yes, well, he's not exactly ours. What's he up to these days?"

"Journalism," I say, standing up to perch my box on my mattress, "Writing for _Newsweek_ actually, with a very promising career ahead of him. He lives in Manhattan now." I sound exactly like one of those short, biographical blurbs you'd find on the inside flap of a novel's jacket. The thought makes me smirk.

"Oh," my father looks mildly impressed, "_Hm_."

"Hey, Dad," I remember one thing, scratching my head hesitantly, "Actually, you know the Crofts, renting out our home at the end of the week?"

"What about them?" he asks dispassionately.

"Can I meet them when they move in? Like, can I be _here_ that day instead of in the city?"

He snorts, and Liz raises an eyebrow, "There's no need - Shepherd will be here to tie up any loose ends and deal with last-minute paperwork. I don't think you really have any place in this, Anne, you're free."

"No, it's not that," I sigh, sitting on the edge of the mattress and forcing Liz to scoot over, "I'm actually good friends with one of them - Sophie Croft? Or else, I used to be. She's Fred's older sister."

Dad is, once again, all skeptical astonishment, "Fred Wentworth again? Why is this man popping into your life all of a sudden?"

_Believe me, if I knew, I would tell you._

"I didn't mean for all this to happen, Dad. Fred and I have long since been over, but I don't see anything wrong with paying a visit to his sister."

He mulls this over for a moment, looking towards Elizabeth. She crosses her arms over her chest just to seem spiteful and negative towards the idea, even if the truth is that she really couldn't give a flying shit about matters that concern me. Always the Devil's advocate.

"Fine," he sighs, "Stay for a bit then, but you're responsible for getting your ass back to the city. Train fare and everything, we're _not_ picking you up."

Fine - I'm not sure I would be able to stand the car ride with them anyway.

Piercing our conversation, the doorbell suddenly chimes, and Liz's expression of haughty boredom is replaced with sheer joy, "Evey's here!"

Evelyn Clay, joy of joys.

The girl in question meets us in my room (_why_ are we all rounded up in my room?), tossing her ponytail over her shoulder. She throws a grin to my father that makes me a little more than queasy, and then plops down on my bed just beside Elizabeth. Evelyn Clay is a plain sort of girl, whose expression is quite commonly a grimace. I don't really think she can help it, I just think that's the position her mouth takes when she isn't smiling.

"Hey Anne," she nods in acknowledgement and I return the gesture. She then turns to Elizabeth, "We going out or what, Lizzy?"

"Yeah, let's go," Liz grins, and they stand, slinging their Fendi purses over their shoulders.

Evey smiles quietly in my father's direction, "Bye, Mr. Elliot!"

Dad's smiling affectionately, watching them rush out, "Such a sweet girl."

"Yeah," I wince, "Sure."

"Oh!" he whirls around, "Cathy wants you to visit, did I tell you? She wants to hear all about Uppercross, wants to make some sort of a lunch date with you. She called this morning."

"Seriously," I balk, "When did you plan to tell me that? It's three o'clock."

"Well, I just _told_ you, didn't I?" he rolls his eyes, starting towards my door, "So hurry up, will you? It's already afternoon."

* * *

Cathy grins at me from over her rounded kitchen table, spooning sugar into her teacup. Her blonde, slightly graying hair is in short ringlets, and she bobs it with her hand affectionately while we sip coffee. She used to be a hairstylist back in the day, so she's constantly experimenting. It's kind of amusing - I loved her quirky hair talents growing up, especially come Halloween.

"So," she smiles, placing her spoon down, "How are you, Anne?"

"Good, Cathy," I recline, looking into my mug's reflection. "Same old."

"I heard about Louisa's accident," she shakes her head, "Mary called the other day. Poor girl."

"Yeah," I nod, "She'll be okay though. She called me a couple of weeks ago on the phone." Mostly to apologize actually, for being what she affectionately dubbed "a complete and utter childish shithead". I couldn't really argue, but I forgave the girl, of course. She seemed truly remorseful. I didn't dare ask what had become of her and Fred, of course.

As if sensing the exact person on my mind, Cathy leans in, blue eyes skeptical, "So, how were things with you and Fred?"

I sip my coffee for an exceptionally long period of time before answering, "Fine."

"_Fine_?" she echoes.

"Well, uncomfortable, but I didn't spend that much time with him." True and not true.

"Hm," she seems satisfied but still concerned, a worry line creasing her forehead, "That must have been awkward. I'm so sorry, sweetie."

"No, that's okay," I shrug, murmuring, "I probably won't see him around for awhile now. Though I do want to see his sister at some point."

"The Crofts, right?" Cathy asks, "The couple renting out your home?"

"Yup," I nod, "I mean, there's no reason for me not to be on good terms with his sister. She was nothing but a wonderful friend to me."

"I agree," she squares her shoulders, "Good for you, honey. I'm glad you're not letting all this awkward past eat up at you. You're really much stronger than you give yourself credit for."

Ha - _funny_.

"Speaking of forgetting the past," a Cheshire cat-like grin crosses her features, "There's somebody I would like you to meet."

"Oh?" I ask, not very interested. I rest my chin in my palm and blink up at her, stirring my coffee lazily.

"He's practically my surrogate nephew, the son of a very old friend of mine. I think you guys would get on very well," she shrugs innocently, manicured hands drumming on the table's surface. She's batting her eyes too often for comfort.

"Hm," I grunt skeptically.

"See, I called him over to help me move some furniture around the house tomorrow. Maybe you can, you know, drop by too."

"Cathy, I'd really rather not--"

"Listen," she holds up her palms, shaking her head, "I'm not asking for anything to happen, I'm just thinking that a distraction would be good for you. He's an attractive boy, a little older than you. He's in advertising."

I sigh, rolling my eyes, "What's his name?"

"Colin Ewing."

And with another exaggerated exhalation, I mumble, "Fine -- I'll stop by tomorrow."

* * *

That evening, I dig out Sophie's cell phone number from Dad's address book, close myself in my room, and bring myself to call her. I hold my breath on the other end as I dial, sitting cross-legged at the edge of my mattress. For some reason, a thought strikes me that she might very well _hate_ me. I did, after all, break her little brother's heart. My God, maybe she despises me and a meeting is the last thing that would cross her mind. But suddenly, it's too late to hang up.

"Hello?" her airy, sweet voice chimes.

"Sophie?"

"Yes," I can hear her voice become skeptical, "Who's this?"

"Um, it's Anne - Anne Elliot. I don't know if you really remember me, but--"

"_Anne_!" she laughs at the other end, no hint of malice or death threat in her voice whatsoever. Actually, she seems overjoyed, and my relief is apparent. I'm grinning already.

"Hey," I laugh, "How are you?"

"Good, good, sweetie, my _God_, how long has it been?"

"Um, four years, give or take."

"Well, _shit_!"

"Yeah," I murmur, smiling, "How's David?" I had only met the elusive Mr. Croft once while visiting Fred's family winter break of my freshman year. Back then, he had been in a relationship with Sophie for three years, and I'm not surprised that they've settled down.

"He's fine," she sighs, "Busy with moving plans - we're actually moving into your old county, I think. Kellynch?"

"Uh, er, actually--"

And I explain to her, very aware of the irony laden behind our circumstances, about exactly _whose_ house she'll be renting out. Expecting Fred's astonished, slightly miffed reaction, I'm floored when she dissolves into hysterical giggles.

"Well, isn't that just the sweetest slice of fate," she grins, her voice nearly melodic, "I can see you now!"

I'm grinning, "Yep!"

"You want to do lunch or something? Maybe Saturday afternoon? I'm sure I could peel myself away from moving arrangements."

"Um--"

She senses my apprehension and sighs, "Sweetie, listen, I'm _perfectly_ aware that your break-up with my brother left some pretty nasty scars, honestly. But why the hell should that hinder any friendship between _us_?"

I love her reasoning, and grin, "It shouldn't!"

"Damn straight!"

I giggle, missing her contagious enthusiasm. God, I miss her so much it suddenly aches, "Saturday then?"

"Sure, sure, swing on by. I'm pretty sure your father's real estate agent will be here anyway, so just smuggle into our party of miscreants, yeah?"

"Sounds like a date, Soph."

"Sounds _lovely_," she trills, grinning.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Bah, slightly filler chapter strictly for the purposes of moving the plot along. I apologize for the lack of dear Fred Wentworth! He'll most likely be absent for the next couple of chapters. And, yes, Colin Ewing is my William Elliot character, so expect his introduction next, as well as a first encounter with Sophie. Thanks muchly for your incredible feedback, guys!


	10. If the Shoe Fits

"You mind if I steal a spicy tuna roll?" Sophie Croft grins slyly at me, and yelps happily when I nod, reaching a long, slim arm towards my plate to snatch the roll between her chop sticks. I grin when she does her own personal variant of "the happy dance", popping it into her mouth with relish.

"Sushi-enthusiast," I smirk, picking at my seaweed salad.

"I hope you don't mind," she dabs at the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin, "But this is the only seafood place I trust not to make me vomit tonight."

Sophie, dearest Sophie, hasn't changed a bit. Well, maybe she has. Her dark blonde hair (same as Fred's, I note) has lengthened down past her shoulders, released from the pixie boy-cut she had had for years, an old personal trademark. But other than that, she is frozen in a capsule of time herself - still the same bubbly, lovely personality I had known. I would've been heartbroken to find her otherwise.

Her hazel eyes squint at me, and she rests her chin in her palm, "I have a question for you, Miss Elliot."

"Fire away."

"You toured the house with me an hour ago, and I forgot to ask - whose room are we taking, David and me?" I grin at her loose term of "tour" - I hadn't so much as toured as been yanked around by the wrist by the over enthusiastic flower child that is Sophie Croft. I think she had been caught up in our squealing, hug-laden reunion and had proceeded to sweep me about the house just to release some of her jitters. Not that I had minded in the least. I've been craving company like this for _weeks_.

"Well," I smile thoughtfully, "You're in the master's bedroom, so that would be my father's."

"The one with the bay windows?" she scrunches her nose, "No offense to your father, but did he pick out those awful, heavy _mauve_ curtains?"

"Guilty as charged."

She makes a gagging sound at the back of her throat, "No disrespect sweetie, but I'm redecorating to my fullest capacity," she sweeps her hands elegantly in front of her, "I'm thinking light, mint green, with forest trim curtains, sheer enough to see the stars."

I grin, "I'm sure you'll do our little country home some justice." Indeed, she _is_ an interior decorator. Though I'm disheartened to be peeled away from Kellynch, a huge part of me is intrigued and curious to see what her creative hands will do to the hallways I lingered in as a child.

"It's kind of a strange and lovely coincidence that we're stealing your home," she notes, grinning, "I would apologize, because now I know how attached you are to the house, but who knows if we would've seen each other like this otherwise?"

"True," I smile, sipping my tea. I sigh, letting the back of my head rest against the booth, "God, your presence is so welcome in my life right now, you have no idea. Everybody else is so _boring_, just weighing me down."

She snorts and coos sympathetically, "I've always been kind of mystified by how you were born into such a gray little family, being such a colorful girl yourself."

"Colorful?" I laugh.

"Yeah!" she grins, dipping a finger inside her lukewarm tea, "_Colorful. _It's no wonder you find your family so boring and bland, they're kind of like rearranged carbon-copies of one another. You my dear, are different."

It's funny. I would've taken slight offense to this statement and slight jab at my family if it hadn't been Sophie Croft saying it. But firstly, I value her opinion too much, and secondly, she is so incredibly right on the money with this depiction of our sullen group of Elliots.

"So," she takes a sip, "This children's book company you're working for this September - you excited?"

"Excited isn't really the word," I shrug, tracing the rim of my cup, "_Wary_, maybe."

"It's okay if you're tentative about it. Sometimes you have to try on all sorts of shoes before you find the one that fits. And hey," she shrugs her shoulders, "Those ones that didn't fit before are just more experiences to sprinkle in your life."

"And experiences ready you," I note, grinning.

"Precisely," she returns my grin and cocks her head, "For the record, I think you'd be fantastic with illustrating children's' books. You've got a soft, sweet method, very watercolor and pastel, it's very pretty."

"Thanks," I smile, blushing. "Have you been perusing my sketchbook?"

"You left it on the kitchen counter before we left," she shrugs unapologetically, her hazel eyes gleaming in the mischievous way I remember.

I snort, shaking my head, "So, how are you? Still my favorite yoga geek?"

"Yes," she rolls her eyes, "I'm actually really bummed that I had to leave the studio I practiced in for two and half years back home. I had the loveliest Kundalini yogis as my companions, and now I feel like I'm starting from scratch again. I'll have to find some new place."

"I'm sure there are some studios around town," I shrug.

"I hope so," she grins, "Yoga's the only reason I'm not an uber bitch during the day. Balances my mood and all. I never expected it to stick, but I fell in love with it."

"I remember when you took me once during my stay during the holidays freshman year," I giggle into my cup, shaking my head, "They knotted me like a pretzel."

"I thought you did a lovely Half Moon Pose," she mock-pouts, trying to pinch my cheek from across the table. I laugh, swatting her away, and she brushes some of my wispy bangs from my eyes, "Look at you blushing," she coos, hell-bent on embarrassing me, "Such a pretty little thing."

"I honestly think that you were meant to be my big sister," I snort, half-expecting her to plant me a noogie.

She purses her lips and looks at me sadly then, "I wish I could be."

I sigh, chewing the inside of my cheek.

"Y'know," the gears of her voice change, and she sounds sneaky again, "There's one thing you haven't told me, Anne."

"What?" I raise an eyebrow skeptically.

"You're totally hiding one _very_ important thing that happened to you this summer."

I blanch, setting my teacup aside. She has a wise, knowing smirk on her pretty face, just waiting for me to crack. I stay silent - maybe she's referring to something else that I don't really know of, but I kind of doubt that that's the case.

"_Anne_!" she sighs irritably after a long period of silence, smacking me half-heartedly on the forearm, "Spill, I _know_ you saw Fred this summer at the Musgroves'. He and I _do_ still call each other, you know."

I groan, burying my face in my hands, mumbling something unintelligible.

"You're a trooper, honey," she shrugs obliviously, taking another sip, "So how big of an asshole was he?"

"What? He wasn't--"

"Oh, come _on_--!"

"A big one," I sigh, and she erupts into thrilled laughter, shaking her head. I stare up at her wide-eyed, but she just looks amused, if not slightly sympathetic. "How is this funny?"

"It's just so like him to be like that," Sophie smirks, shaking her head.

"No, well," I sigh, "Firstly, he wasn't bad at all, seriously. I think we reached some sort of mutual understanding. And secondly, I can't really blame him for still harboring a grudge in the beginning."

"I see your point, Anne, but the problem with Fred is that he always thinks things like these are one-sided," she rolls her eyes, "It tore him up four years ago, _yes_, but it's like he's under the total assumption that it didn't upset _you_ whatsoever."

I can't bring myself to answer.

"He was always a really emotional boy growing up, did you know?" she shakes her head, picking some rice off of her chop sticks, "Always took things very close to heart, and always wanted others to know what he felt, sometimes _feel_ what he felt."

"He tried to guilt me in the beginning," I mutter, "As if I didn't feel guilty enough."

Sophie smiles softly, "Still, it's got to mean something that you still affect him so much after all this time."

I straighten, blinking, "Well, I guess. I didn't really think of it that way."

"He probably played it off like he had moved on and forgotten you," she snorts, rolling her eyes, "Maybe even flirted with a couple of other girls just to be spiteful."

I open and close my mouth, and she notes my expression clearly.

"Sweetie, I know that boy so well, I could read him like a book."

"Clearly," I snort, "Still, I think it's good that he's moved on. That we both have, I mean, and that things between us are okay. I'm happy that he's successful too."

"Yeah," she smiles affectionately, "I'm ecstatic that he's doing so well. He's worked so hard to get to where he's at."

"Yeah," I nod, "See, so maybe it's not so bad what happened between us. You just have to keep moving forward, you know?"

"Of course," she answers cheerfully, but she's not looking at me anymore.

And reminded of Cathy's carefully chosen words of "forgetting the past", I steal a glance at my watch to find that it's a quarter to four and I'm expected back at her home in about an hour. I deliver this snippet of news to Sophie, who flashes me a sneaky little smirk again when I bring up "some guy she wants me to meet".

"Speaking of moving on!" she laughs pointedly.

"No, it's probably not like that. I haven't dated anybody in years, and I'm pretty sure she's trying to set me up with somebody all wrong."

But Sophie just shrugs, grinning, "Try on a shoe, see if it fits."

"Just some more experiences, hm?" I smile.

"Exactly," she returns the smile, taking my hand. A serious look passes her eyes and stares up at me, "I just want you to be happy, Anne, you know that? Like, _ridiculously_ happy, despite your anal family and your ideas of how others want you to be."

"That's deep, Soph," I bat my eyes at her.

She rolls her eyes, smirking, "I can never pull sentimental moments with you, you always screw them up!"

"Well, some things never change," I laugh.

"Thank God for that."

* * *

This lunch date with Sophie Croft has basically elevated my mood to incredibly high proportions, despite the dreariness the entire week embodied leading up to today. It was an awful week, full of packing and moving, and heartfelt separations from a childhood home. The move into Philly was just as disappointing, despite the glossy and well-furnished new apartment. It thrilled my father and Elizabeth to no ends, but to me, it seemed too cold to be home when I toured it. Maybe I'm biased.

I've already got most of my furniture assembled there, but if I could, I wouldn't return to the city at all. I'm not used to the noise just yet, not used to this sudden shift of my surroundings. We don't know _anybody_ there, though Dad's getting pretty chummy with our neighbor. Some rich widow named Tiffany Rymple lives next door, and he's spending a great deal of time kissing her ass in hopes of mingling with the right crowd. She's his idea of elite, but I don't really see anything special.

I'm in no rush to leave the area I'm in, so at this point, I'm actually kind of happy to be visiting Cathy Russell. As for Colin Ewing? Well, bring it. In any case, I'm sure we'll just end up being acquaintances, and what's another name in your address book or another (hopefully friendly) face?

I slide into Cathy's winding driveway, sliding the gear into park. Parked in front of me is a slick black Prius I don't recognize, but I can guess who it belongs to. Cathy only drives the Town & Country, and that's parked snugly inside her garage.

Gathering my satchel bag, I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror briefly. I had debated dressing a little fancier today, because I wasn't exactly sure where Sophie was dragging us to. Elizabeth had tried desperately to thrust me towards her closet this morning. But there's really no use wrestling me out of my faded jeans and tees after all these years.

I smirk, thinking of Elizabeth's contemptuous eye-roll this morning. My older sister's always sneered at my fashion choices, deeming it to "boho", what with my constant denim-fixation, beaded bracelets and bangles. I wear colorful scarves and Chucks in the wintertime, she wears spiked heel boots and fur. I'm indie, she's glam. Sophie's right, we really couldn't be more different, right down to our choices of clothing.

Sighing, I slide out of the sedan (Dad grudgingly left me his car, even after all that barking about train fare) and sling my bag over my shoulder, following the stone pathway up to front door of Cathy's big white, blue-shuttered Victorian. I let myself in quietly, glancing about. Cathy's home is so _her_, really, down to the floral wallpaper and rose-scented candles. It's not contemporary, but homey in all its flowered, grandmotherly glory.

I hear a gaggle of voices not far off, most likely coming from the living room. I wander into the kitchen silently, searching for something to drink before I have to deal with Cathy just yet. I snatch a can of ginger ale from the top shelf of her refrigerator and lean against the counter, glancing around. She _has_ been redecorating. The table's positioned differently, and I think the chandelier has been changed, or at least cleaned.

Cathy enters the room, giggling over her shoulder, mid-conversation I think. She squeaks when she sees me, and for a moment I feel bad about being so sneaky, especially when she places a hand over her chest. But she rolls her eyes and smiles good-naturedly, "Goodness, Anne, always so secretive."

"Not really," I smile, taking a sip, "So you really _are_ moving stuff around?"

"Of course," she responds, moving nimbly past to check on something in the oven, "You hungry, sweetie?"

"No, thanks, I just came back from lunch."

She smiles politely at me from over her shoulder, sliding oven mitts over her hands. She removes a baking dish from the middle shelf, the wafting scent of pound cake filling the kitchen, and I slide a wooden cutting board out from one of her cupboards so she can set the tray down without charring the countertop.

"Your infamous poundcake?" I raise an eyebrow, and she returns the expression ten-fold. Cathy's pound cake has been notoriously used through the years to make people linger at the Russell residence. It's just too delicious to pass up. I sigh, knowing _exactly_ who she wants to linger this time. God, I hate being set up.

The victim in question finally enters the room, and Cathy glances up, thrilled. She flocks over to my side and pushes me forward, which pretty much can't even get more embarrassing. But thankfully, this stranger understands what I'm feeling. We're both wearing the same awkward smile, both blushing from the painfully obvious set up jammed in our faces.

"Anne, this is Colin Ewing," Cathy smiles widely, "Colin, this is Anne Elliot, the girl I was mentioning earlier."

"Pleasure," he extends a hand, grinning so that the awkwardness dissipates a little - it works.

"Likewise," I smile.

Colin Ewing's a good-looking, dark haired fellow, lanky and charming. You also get the impression that he _knows_ he's charming too, but it doesn't really bother me. We wander onto Cathy's terrace together, armed with respective slices of pound cake. I settle on her porch swing, and he leans against the brick pillar that supports a bunch of wedged potted plants, picking delicately at his plate.

"So," this stranger glances up at me, smirking with amusement, "You _do_ know this is an obvious set-up, right?"

"Well, _yeah_ -- I'm a little insulted you would even consider otherwise," I smile back, swinging my seat idly.

He laughs, chewing thoughtfully, "For the record, I don't really object. I expected somebody kind of different."

"Different," I echo, raising an eyebrow.

"Well," he swallows, smiling, "Someone a little more Cathy, you know? With her little Grandma's cardigans and orthopedic shoes. Strange mental image, I know."

"Cathy doesn't _wear_ orthopedic shoes, you make her sound like she's ancient," I snort, laughing.

Colin shrugs easily, "Well, _anyway_, color me pleasantly surprised." He throws a little grin for good measure.

"Hm," I smirk, shaking my head. Somebody's _definitely_ playing the charm card. But I actually embrace it, which is weird. Normally I'd steer clear of these types. But I kind of need this distraction, you know? It's nice being flirted with again. It's nice not being entirely serious for a change.

Cathy dashes onto the terrace then, oven mitts still secured over her little hands, "Anybody want coffee? Tea? _Iced_ tea?"

Colin and I exchange a look and cough, "No thanks."

After she shuffles off, he passes a hand over his eyes, "She's not over eager or anything."

"Of course not."

"She's actually kind of adorable," he notes wistfully, tapping his fork against a now empty plate, "So _Golden Girls_."

I snort at the fact that he thinks she's really that old, and he takes this as incentive enough to sit beside me on the swing - not that I really mind. But his hand grazes mine and I scoot a little bit, subtly placing some distance between us.

"So, Cath mentioned you're in advertising?" I ask conversationally, looking up at him.

He nods, "I work for my father's company, yes. And you're an artist."

"I guess there's been some chatting going on, huh," I tsk, "Does this save us some pleasantries and small-talk?"

"Only if you want it to," he lowers his voice, actually having the audacity to throw me a _wink_.

"Wow," I laugh, rolling my eyes, "I can't believe you just _winked_ at me!"

"It's so 1940s isn't it? I figured it was worth a try in all its corniness," he shakes his head, grinning, and I notice his eyes are a peculiar shade of blue - more like slate than anything else.

"At least you went out on a limb there."

"I think it was pretty brave, yeah," he smirks, and then fixes me with a pensive gaze. After a couple moments of silence, he says, "So, Anne."

"Yes?"

"Say I wanted to see you again in a situation that didn't involve granny houses and pound cake - Would I be able to do that?"

"I thought you liked the whole orthopedic shoe environment," I tease.

He rolls eyes with a smile, but in the end, we _do_ end up exchanging numbers. I'm not even sure I really like him. Maybe I do. I guess I do, yeah. It might be the man himself, or just the allure of dating again. I've been holding myself back for awhile. And sometimes, a girl's just got to let go.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yowza, speedy update! I'm really supposed to be doing AP summer coursework during these sparse, few days left of my summer vacation, but I've had this nagging part of me that just wanted to grind out these Fred-less chapters and get that over with. Mr. Wentworth himself will probably show up next update, I'm sure of it.

Meanwhile, there's Colin for you. And yes, first impressions _are_ deceiving, we'll see more of that in good time. But I'm happy and relieved to have introduced my version of Sophia Croft; I've wanted to add my own spin to that character for ages! Anywho, you guys are lovely - Please let me know what you think!


	11. Sibling Affection

I've never really settled down in my Manhattan apartment, even though I've technically lived here just shy of two years. It's still the same cramped, dusty gray space I first shuffled into, Ben's wry epitome of "the starving journalist's digs". Not that I'm starving in any sense of the word, I'm just not particularly into the whole design scheme. Besides, what more could a working man want out of a living space than a comfortable mattress, a writing desk and internet access? Oh, and a junk drawer lodged with take-out menus, of course, I mean this _is_ New York, a rare gem of a city in which Chinese can be delivered to your doorstep at three in the morning. As a result, my place isn't quite so homey. See, the decorating sensibilities in the Wentworth gene pool definitely jumped ship and hit Sophie in one fluid leap, honestly. And it's _her_ yammering in my ear that I have to put up with as I tidy up a cluttered mass of newspaper clippings and articles strewn across my desk. Not that I mind, I kind of adore my older sister. She's your typical ray of sunshine, just a little more snarky and new-age.

"I'm buying you new furniture, Fred," her voice is laden with full threat, and I grin, switching my Blackberry to my other shoulder, "You live like a _hobo_ for a respectable journalist, and I won't have it."

"You're not buying me anything, Sophie, please," I insist, and I hear a faint sprinkle of water behind her voice. "You're not," I snort, "You're not in the _bathroom_ are you?"

"What? _No_," she sighs, slightly exasperated, "I'm just tending to my garden."

"You don't garden."

"I _dabble_," she huffs, "Besides, there's this beautiful stone archway in the back yard, and it's got the loveliest chrysanthemums you've ever seen. They call to me, Fred, they _need_ my loving and nurturing!" A beat, and then, "Well, actually I'm just focused on getting all these weeds rooted out from the property, because they're little sons-of-bitches."

"I'd imagine," I laugh, taking a seat at my desk. God, it's been forever since I've sorted through all the dismal _crap_ in my apartment. Since my summer spent with the Musgroves, I arrived back home only to launch headlong into my work. Post-Its with deadlines and numbers scribbled out just make me squirm all the more at this point. My sister senses my apprehension, as she always has.

"You okay, sport? You sound glum, without even saying anything," she pops her lips, and I hear the rustling of something, maybe plastic, in the background of her voice. She's most likely potting plants and arranging mulch awkwardly with a beginner's hand.

"I'm fine, tied up with work, unfortunately," I murmur, spying a bright, colorful piece of cardboard sticking awkwardly out from my mound of mail. I pluck it out, recognizing it as the sunny invitation from the Harvilles for Labor Day weekend. They're having a get-together of family and friends to celebrate the recent birth of their baby daughter, a healthy ("_Screaming_," Ben described happily over the phone) child named Maya Bailey. I grin, fingering the orange border of the invitation. I've already RSVP'd in advance, and I'm already anxious to see my good friends and their little addition at their home just outside of the Hamptons.

"Hey, mutey," Sophie's voice reels me back in, and I stir, "Guess who I saw about a week ago?"

"Hm," I wedge the invitation between a cluster of bills, "Christian Bale."

"No," she guffaws, "Even better!"

"_Better_ than Christian Bale?" I gasp, swiveling in my chair, "You've had a massive crush on him since _American Psycho_, Soph - Though you've got to be a pretty unusual girl to dig a guy after watching him hack Jared Leto to pieces."

"I'm sorry, but if you can't see the humor in that scene, then we're strictly not related," she says matter-of-factly, her tone bordering on abrasive, "And stop attempting to get me off-topic, it won't work this time!"

"Fine," I laugh, rolling my eyes, "Shoot, _who_, pray tell, is the incredible person you ran into last week?" Knowing my dear sister, it's most likely an old acquaintance from her high school years, or maybe even university. She's pulled this type of conversation thousands of times and the person of choice always ends up being somebody I don't remember in the slightest.

"Anne Elliot," she replies with such airiness that for a moment, I'm not certain if I've heard her correctly. I straighten, frowning, and she takes my silence into consideration, "You didn't hang up, did you?"

"No, I'm here," I mumble, "_Anne Elliot_?"

"Yep!" Sophie answers cheerfully, and I can hear her muttering quickly for a second, and then a yanking tear is heard, "_Gotcha_! Sorry, I just pulled a weed out. It died a most excruciating death, so I feel like a bit of a sadist at present moment."

But I'm smiling now, rubbing my jaw, a little astonished that my ex actually took my suggestion and paid a visit to my sister. I assumed she'd just dash off to Philadelphia without a moment's hesitation, but the fact that she took the opportunity to see Sophie seems really - well, _sweet_. Not that Anne is by nature somebody who displays a personality that's otherwise.

The thought makes me smile a little, and I glance at the invitation again.

"I _hate_ that you're not speaking," Sophie tells me with agitation, "I'm not telepathic. What's on our mind, O Silent One?"

"Nothing," I laugh, "So, what, did she seek you out or something?"

"Basically," she answers, "We met for sushi the day we gave her family the boot, ironically enough. I'm ecstatic that she hasn't really changed, though. She's such a tolerant, wise young one, always putting up with varying amounts of bullshit. I've always loved her, you know."

"She's always loved you, I think," I grin, "You're a big sister of sorts."

"A big sister who lost touch for four years," she sighs heavily, "That's not exactly a worthy prospect."

"Well, things happen," I murmur.

"Fred," Sophie suddenly says, but her voice lacks the same lightness it had before. She sounds like she's about to ask or even plead for something, but then she just sighs.

"What?"

"It's just," she mumbles quietly, "You weren't too hard on her, were you? At the Musgroves'?"

"No, actually, I was a pretty big dipshit a number of times," I state blankly, "I hit me pretty clearly just after I left. It _always_ hits you when you leave, that's when you regret things the most." I've been battling with this train of thought ever since I departed from Jersey, fresh with newfound respect for Anne and a head full of regrets for all the fabricated tête-à-têtes I had with Louisa. That's pretty much what our entire conversation circulated around the night of her accident. But we parted with the additional hope that we could just leave on good terms as friends, which I think was partially successful. A thought then reaches me concerning Anne, and I frown, "Wait, did she say anything to you? Did I really hurt her?" God, I'm a shithead sometimes. I'm an absolute _shithead_.

"Probably not as much as you think," she laughs, "She just seemed bummed - really bummed. In fact, I haven't ever seen her this unhappy. It might also have to do with the move; I mean she was really attached to this house. She's not looking forward to living in tight quarters with her father and older sister, in an area of the city in which she knows _nobody_, you know?" she sighs, "It's difficult."

"Yeah," I mutter, rubbing my jaw. I kind of just want to speak to her then, I really do. It's strange, the thoughts I've had for the last few weeks, but one thing I _do_ know is that I want to talk to her. I care about her. I want to know how she's doing. I'm just too chicken-shit, in a sense.

"Well, anyway," Sophie sighs, "Life moves forward, as it should. I talked to her a couple of days ago, and she's a little more enthused than before about starting work as a children's book illustrator. Also, she's met this guy named Colin, and they've been hanging out for the last week or so. He lives around her block, coincidentally, so he's been acquainting her with that area of the city."

"Oh," I mumble, "That's - that's good."

"Yeah, I think so. She needs a good friend, and he seems like a nice guy from what I've heard," she then mutters a little, and a few ripping and shredding sounds are heard, "Oh shit, I don't think I'm cut out for this gardening thing."

"How come?" I murmur, a little distracted.

"Well, um, I kind of accidentally tore _out _a handful of the chrysanthemums I had just planted - so, yeah, I'm going to go cover this all up with mulch, go back inside and ask David for a back rub. I think I gave it a worthy shot," she laughs, sighing just a little bit.

"You've had a good run, Soph," I murmur, smiling, "Next time leave the landscaping to a professional."

"Yeah, I'll remember that," she mutters sharply under her breath, "Okay, little brother, I'm going to go. I love you!"

"Love you too," I say, sliding the phone closed. I sigh and take a seat at the desk, glancing at the invitation again. I look at my phone then from the corner of my eye, contemplating a call to Ben Harville. There's no harm in finding out who exactly is on the guest list, is there?

* * *

**Author's Note:** I promised Wentworth, and aha, here he is! And _two_ Wentworths, how about that? I have an appalling shortage of Fred's POVs, don't I? That might be amended in the future. Sorry that it's kind of short, it seemed longer on my Word document (then again, I always read FF's in that little 1/2 format -- Does anybody else do that?). Anyway, summer's coming to a close, and I felt like churning another chapter out instead of _reading_ another chapter of _Their Eyes Were Watching God _for summer homework. It's a good release from boredom. Thanks _so _much for reading and please (please, please) review!


	12. Gallivanting with the Charmer

"Um, wow, so you _only_ read classics?" Colin Ewing smirks, near-stalking me (as I've dubbed it to his supreme annoyance) whilst we weave in and out of the 'Literature' aisles at Barnes & Noble. I evade his criticism and take a casual sip from my soy latte, grinning nonchalantly.

"Not _only_ classics - Though I have a tendency of buying new _editions_ of classics," I square my shoulders, inspecting a hard cover copy of Alcott's _Little Women_, "See, I like the annotations and new forewords people throw in every now and then when a book has an extremely long shelf span. It makes my dull life a little more exceptional."

"Anne, you're such a nerd," my companion teases dryly, but he throws a charming smile to soften the mock-blow, resting his elbow against the closest shelf so he can lean a little too closely for comfort. I shift a little, and he shuffles a fraction of an inch closer.

"Personal bubble, Colin," I remind warily, a phrase I've repeated _dozens_ of times for the last few days we've been gallivanting around downtown Philadelphia together. Gallivanting isn't really so much as a hyperbole lately as an actual truth. First off, yes, I _did_ experience a severe splash of shock and astonishment when I discovered that my recent acquaintance lives within near walking distance of my current apartment complex. This sliver of information was followed by a doubtful snort and a tremendous questioning of the weavings of fate and coincidences that are far beyond my philosophical comprehension. Because seriously, _what_ are the odds? It's nearly bone-chilling.

Still, I'd be point-blank lying if I told you that I'm not enjoying the company of one, Colin James Ewing. He's spared me from the massive psychological harm that can only be inflicted from living in cramped spaces with my egomaniacal father and sister. For that, I think it's pretty safe to say I owe him my _life_. But exaggerations aside, we've had splendid little outings to pass the smooth little square of time I have to kill before beginning work September 15th. You know, activities that include touring an obscene amount of art museums (stomping triumphantly a-la- _Rocky_ more times than I'm willing to admit). This also included wistful window shopping and indulging in day-old Thai food in cramped city restaurants, as well as feeding bread loaves to geese in neighboring parks and giggling about the absurdity that we did so.

I don't think I really ever understood John Lennon's words of, "Time you enjoy wasting, was not wasted," until this precise moment. It's kind of sweet, when you think about it, doing absolutely _nothing_ - as long as you enjoy it and the company's decent. For once, there's nothing on my conscience to hinder me from doing so.

"_I Am America and So Can You_," Colin says, glancing at the inside flap of the volume he holds, "I'm one of those people who will read anything written by Stephen Colbert, simply because it's Stephen Colbert."

"Well, he makes me giggle," I shrug, still perusing through my beloved classics. I smooth my hands over a cover of _Pride and Prejudice_, glancing over my shoulder, "To tell you the truth, I kind of had an itsy bitsy crush on Jon Stewart a couple years back. You know, in the vein of all those political satirists."

"Kinky," he notes with a smirk, and I roll my eyes. "I have a thing for Angelina Jolie," he admits a few moments later, as if this is supposed to connect us on some personal level.

"Wow, original, _everybody_ has a thing for Angelina Jolie. Even heterosexual _women_ might have a thing for Angelina Jolie," I say, tracing the rim of my coffee thermos absently.

Colin snorts and leans against the bookshelf just in front of me, hindering my browsing capabilities, "You're a little snarky, you know that? Not that I mind."

"I guess you bring out my inner bitch," I murmur with a good-humored eye-roll, "Now move, _please_?"

But he lingers just to see if I'll do something unpredictable. See, I've discovered that Colin Ewing gets a thrill out of eliciting unprecedented responses out of people. He likes to stir reactions, especially from otherwise subdued people like yours truly. And the fact that I've refused to do for the last few days has simply encouraged him to try with more effort. So he stays perfectly still and crosses his arms over his broad chest, glancing down at me imploringly.

"Make me."

"Well, I would hit you with my latte," I say, glancing past his shoulder, "But first off, it cost me 2.50, and secondly, I don't want to ruin the perfectly good copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ behind you."

"Oh and what, _my_ welfare isn't taken into this complex consideration of yours?" he feigns disappointment, slate eyes narrowing accordingly. Another thing I've gathered over ample time spent is that he's a grade-A flirt, chock-full of syrupy substance. I've called him out on this several times already, and he's well aware of the fact.

"Yeah, no, I don't really care if my latte hurts you," I shrug passively.

"You know," Colin says conversationally as we duck into a separate wing of the store, "Normally I have better luck with women. I'm a little smoother. But you're making me trip up, Anne!"

"I'm just resistant to your bullshit, that's all," I beam.

He laughs, "It's a shame, because I'm a _fantastic_ bullshitter."

"That's sad," I wince, "I mean, how do people know if it's you they're speaking to or Colin the Bullshitter?" I can't tell if he appreciates my spin on Conan the Barbarian, because his smile just pulls into a sneer.

"Hey, my bullshit can be _very_ expertly used," he spreads his hands wisely in front of him, "You know, for important scenarios like job interviews and meeting the families of my previous girlfriends. Let me tell you, parents _love_ me."

"No, parents love your _bullshit_," I amend with a smile.

"Well, maybe," Colin grimaces, dark eyebrows pulled together in thought.

"And I can't really see you going on job interviews," I say conversationally, spinning on my heel, "I mean, we've been hanging out together for full days, nearly one week and counting, and I have _never_ seen a briefcase in tow or anything," I pause, glancing over his polished ensemble, "Though, you _do_ wear slacks and loafers every day, but I just assumed you were allergic to denim."

"Oh, hardy har har," he rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets, "I work for my father's company. This gives me the undisputed privilege of working from my apartment most days. As for my dress, which you just _dissected_, well, I like to look presentable."

"Hm," I narrow my eyes, taking a sip, "But if you work from your apartment, why have you been so free these last few days?"

"I've made exceptions here and there to hang out with somebody I'm kind of fond of," he smiles crookedly for a moment, "If you get my drift."

"Yeah, okay," I murmur, turning back to browse.

"There's really no way of complimenting you, is there?" he asks, amused.

"Not really, no."

"Well, what if I were to tell you that I've actually _yet_ to bullshit anything with you?" he asks, eyebrows raised, "Impressed?"

"Eh," I shrug.

He sighs audibly, pressing his palms to his eyes, "You're going to make my cry."

"Aw," I grimace, digging in my satchel, "Tissue?"

"Cute."

I grin, and he offers me the crook of his elbow as we descend the escalator - which I don't exactly _not_ take.

"So, Miss Elliot," he inclines his head towards mine, smirking just a little, "You wouldn't happen to have plans come Labor Day weekend, would you? I mean, I know you start work soon after."

"I do, actually," I wince, "A good friend of mine has recently had a baby." The thought brings an instant grin to my face, and I can't seem to get it off, "I'm actually uberly excited, they're having a get-together for the occasion and I can't wait to see the tot."

Colin makes a face, "You've never seen a baby before?"

"Oh come on," I swat at him, "Don't be an asshole. She's the lovely first child of a good friend of mine."

"What'd they name her?"

"Maya," I grin, thinking of Karen's well-prized "What _Not_ to Name Our Child" List, "Maya Bailey Harville."

"Pretty," Colin responds off-handedly, shoving his hands into his pockets, and I agree. He turns to me as I step off, looking a little uncharacteristically shy, or maybe just anxious, "So, where _is_ this get-together, out of curiosity?"

"Mm, upstate New York," I respond, lingering in the foyer of the store. I raise an eyebrow, "We wouldn't happen to me fishing for an invite, would we?"

"Well," he sniffs nonchalantly, "I'm just wondering if you're allowed to bring a Plus One."

"What if I don't want to?"

"Then I'm going to have to take you up on your offer for that tissue," Colin says quickly.

"_God_," I groan, passing a hand over my eyes, "It never really ceases to amaze me just how full of shit you are."

"I know, right?" he grins widely, "I astound myself, too."

I sigh, glancing up at him, but once again, he is all friendly charm personified. Slumping just slightly, I mutter, "_Fine_," and he beams brightly in response.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Ick. _Ick_. Yeah, I hated this chapter. Seriously, it just did not go well with me. It might have to do with one of the main characters it circulated around, but you know. You need chapters like these to move the plot along. Anyway, next up should be fun, as it'll be little Maya Bailey's party. Expect the Harvilles, catching up, Fred and Anne conversations, and a little bit of jealousy. Because I can. _Muhaha_. Ahem.


	13. Plus One Is the Loneliest Number

I've never ever exactly perfected the art of multi-tasking. I think this skill more hopped than skipped over to Mary, expert Baby Mama that she is. She is the only woman I know who can balance two screaming toddlers, schedule appointments, make speedy grocery trips _and_ scold Charlie for something minute on her Blackberry - all at the same time. _Me_? Well, I'm not so fortunate. I skirt around the apartment like a headless chicken, unsure of what to wear, unable to locate my makeup bag, and uncomfortable at the thought of Colin being probed at downstairs in the foyer by my father and sister - all while wielding my phone, jammed between shoulder and ear as I rake desperately through my closet.

"Fuck," I mutter, "I have nothing to wear, Mary - _Nothing_!"

"That's ridiculous," she answers breezily from the other end of the phone, "Just pair a white blouse and a black skirt and you're set. Simple and classy."

"Um," I wince, locating my only available white blouse, only to discover that it's badly wrinkled, and, oh _gross_ - matched with a tiny smattering of spaghetti sauce, "Lovely idea, but it's unavailable at the moment."

She sighs heavily, and I can picture her pinching the bridge of her nose - a habit she's had since childhood, laughably enough.

"God, I'm screwed," I run a hand through my hair, glancing at my watch.

"Less talk-y, more look-y, okay?" Mary jolts me back into motion, and I nod fervently until realizing she can't exactly see me. I pull out three possible outfits and start shrugging the top of my first choice on, though this is tricky to maneuver while holding the phone. Ideally, I should hang up, but I _need_ Mary at the moment. She's keeping me sane, believe it or not.

"Breathe, Anne, breathe," she tells me helpfully, "Nobody will slaughter you for being fifteen minutes late."

"I feel bad," I mumble, scrutinizing my reflection and throwing off the top. Nothing, _nothing_ looks good. "It sucks that you can't make it."

"Yeah," Mary sighs slightly, "I'm tied down with Hunter and Danny. Charlie's over there though, I don't think he could ever forgive himself for missing it. Ben's one of his closest friends, and this _is_ his first child."

"True enough," I sigh, rifling through my top dresser drawer.

"Mm," Mary responds, humming for a moment, "Oh, did you hear about Louisa and Jimmy Benwick?"

"What about them?" I mumble with half-interest.

"They're dating."

"_What_?" All articles of clothing drop promptly from my grasp until I'm standing in the center of my bedroom, wide-eyed. I must not have heard her correctly, so I stutter, "Repeat that?"

"I know, right?" Mary snorts, "They're _dating_. Apparently she had a little thing for him all along, and they really clicked when he stayed at her bedside the night of her accident. I don't understand it either, Annie, please don't bother trying."

"But," I blink, "_How_? They," I pause, "Mary, they're so different! Louisa and _Jimmy_?" Seriously, it's like oil and water. It's just unfathomable. It's all _wrong_. Slap two different pieces of two different puzzles together, why don't you?

"Hey, maybe opposites _do_ attract," she beams, "Whatever - I just thought I'd deliver this hot-off-the-press piece of gossip."

"Thanks," I laugh, "Just _wow_. I'm in shock, honestly. How long have they been going out?"

"Fuck if I care," Mary snorts, and this automatically makes me double over, mostly because Mary almost _never_ cusses. The twins must be out of earshot or something.

"Damn," I whistle, shaking my head, "The boy bounced back."

"That he did," she clucks her tongue, "And now both sisters have their own distractions to tie them down with." A pause, and then, "_Oh_! Oh my God, _Anne_."

"What, any more juicy gossip?"

"_No_, Hannah!" she exclaims desperately, "What about the dress Hannah made you try on months ago? The pretty green one?"

"Holy shit, you're right!" I grin. How could I have forgotten it? I hadn't even taken it out of the Macy's bag. Throwing myself down on all fours, I all but army-crawl through the mess lining the floor of my closet until I locate the stark white bag. Snatching it from the wreckage of dirty laundry, I unwrap the lovely olive cocktail dress like a newborn, astonished that it's been left unscathed by the mess.

"Mary, I love you," I say seriously.

"I know," she laughs, "I'm going to let you go, okay? Have a wonderful time, and try to relax."

I grin, feeling the weight slide off my shoulders, "Thanks, Mae." Thank God for those stellar, golden moments when my baby sister comes through for me. It makes me remember that she actually is something more than the shrewd, overbearing housewife when she wants to be. I slide the phone closed and strip down, kicking my sweats into an untidy pile by the foot of my bed. Carefully, I slip into the dress, securing the straps over my shoulders. I dart over to my dresser to see the result.

God, it's a lovely little thing, and I'm so grateful to Hannah at this moment. I liked it in the fitting room, for sure, but for some reason, I find it lovelier here - probably because I spent thirty minutes sloughing off ninety percent of my outfits prior to this one. This might as well be my holy grail. So I secure my hair with ease into a loose, pleasant chignon and dab on a bit of eyeliner, concealer and mascara (_finally_ locating my makeup bag beneath my pillow). And things have instantly gotten a smidge less anxiety-riddled. As a final touch, I delicately retrieve a string of pearls from my jewelry box - my mother's -- and latch them on, sighing a little. I cock my head, liking the effect, and then remember that I literally _have_ no time for little sighs and reflections. Snatching some modest heels from my closet, I dash downstairs, finding Colin standing patiently in the foyer. He looks quite debonair himself, but then again, he always has something nice to shrug into.

Unfortunately for him, Elizabeth has taken a liking to my companion. She's giggling flirtatiously and leaning close, practically a minute away from wrapping her leg around his ankle, I'd imagine. Disturbingly enough, my father is unfazed by this, but he seems to like Colin Ewing well enough. He's _smiling_, at least, but then again, Colin never really fails at making fantastic first impressions. "Parents _love_ me."

I descend the stairs quickly and he grins, offering me the crook of his elbow as I slip into my heels, one by one. "Hey," I greet breathlessly, tucking back a fly-away of my hair into place, "Sorry I'm running late."

"Not a problem," he grins, "You look stunning."

"Thanks," I mumble, kind of distracted. I lurch on my heels and kiss my father and sister briefly on the cheek, muttering quick goodbyes.

"Drive safe," Dad warns as an automatic precaution, hands shoved in his pockets. Elizabeth has shifted from flirtatious banter to looking sullen and pissy, but this might have to do with the zero percent of attention Colin is affording her as he ushers me out the entrance with a hand against the small of my back. Before I leap ahead, that is, because I don't really want _anybody's_ hand on my back.

* * *

Well, for the record, Colin and I are late - Slightly so. There's a throng of guests, a smattering of family and friends lurking at the entrance of their square, sheltered suburban home. But all seem to be mingling, so it's not a very pressing matter that we've arrived a little overdue. I recognize only a few people, and make a beeline towards Charlie in the kitchen. Introductions are readily made, Colin at my heels.

"Where would the lucky parents of the hour be, may I ask?" I snatch a glass of wine from the tray at the counter, turning towards Charlie. He's grinning, but fitfully tugging at his tie.

"Upstairs for a few minutes, lulling the baby to sleep," he screws his face, loosening his collar all the more. It takes a couple moments for me to notice that he's slightly pink in the face.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, laughing, "It's embarrassing. I'm probably having a reaction to the wine."

"How many have you had?" Colin asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Just one," Charlie rolls his eyes with an embarrassed chuckle.

"I'm the same way with champagne," I grimace, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Why don't you go outside and get some fresh air - believe me it helps."

Charlie nods and I walk with him towards the back door of the living room that leads to the terrace, and Colin follows. I can't really blame him, he knows nobody else at this gathering. But still, I feel _awkward_. What with somebody from the recent part of my life meeting somebody from the past chunk of my life - It's a strange thing to witness. Or maybe Colin just makes me _feel_ awkward. I ignore this thought for a moment as I usher my brother-in-law outside. I lean against the adjacent wall of the back door, take a sip of my wine, and watch as Colin glances at me perceptively.

"You're unusually quiet."

I shrug.

"Listen," he glances over his shoulder for a moment, turning back to me quickly, "I'm going to look for something to drink okay? Wine isn't really doing it for me."

"I don't think you'll find any hard liquor here," I say, stifling a grin, "Though you'll have to talk to Ben Harville - Once I introduce you, of course."

"Of course," he smirks, but eventually leaves me all by my lonesome in the living room. I don't mind. I seat myself at the foot of the stairs that leads into the present room, resting my elbows on my knees and my chin in my palm. I feel tired and weary already. I want to see the Harvilles more than anything, and I don't know anybody else here, save for Colin and Charlie. It's making me jittery. I wonder if-

_No_. He's probably busy in New York.

I take another sip of my wine and sigh, and suddenly hear a shuffle of footsteps behind me, somebody descending the staircase. I don't turn back immediately, expecting Ben or (please!) Karen. But once the mysterious lurker comes into view, I swallow my words.

Fred Wentworth blinks down at me, looking amused, "Hey stranger."

"Hey," I laugh, astonished. I stand and dust of the skirt of my dress, lifting my wine glass carefully. We stand apart for a few moments, awkwardly suspended in time.

"So," Fred clears his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets, "How are you?"

"Good, good," I shrug, tracing the rim of the glass, "Newly moved, starting work soon."

"Hm," he nods, "Have you seen the baby yet?"

"No," I mumble, sighing, "I'm guessing _you_ did, coming from upstairs and all. I feel shunned."

He laughs and scratches the back of his head, "I'm sure Karen would _not_ throw a shit-fit if you came upstairs. You're her favorite Yoda. Besides, they're just feeding Maya," he pauses for a moment, growing wide-eyed at my own skeptical expression, "_Formula_. They're feeding her formula, Anne."

"_Good_," I laugh, shaking my head, "There's nothing more uncomfortable to me than having a conversation with a woman who happens to be breast-feeding at the same time - I'm touchy like that."

"Yeah, figures," Fred grins wryly, rubbing the stubble of his chin. I realize that he's dressed a lot more polished this evening, probably for this occasion. I wonder who happened to wrestle him into the dark slacks and pale blue button-down, but either way, he looks pretty striking when he makes more of an effort. Seeing that we're being (_freakishly_) friendly for a change, I open my mouth to compliment him but stop when I see that he's watching me intently.

"So," Fred clears his throat, glancing away for a moment, but I suspect this is on purpose, "You look really pretty."

"Thanks," I murmur, looking down, "You're looking quite dapper yourself."

"Oh, _dapper_?" Fred asks me archly, at ease again, "What is this, the 1930s?" I grin, shrugging, amused and simultaneously weirded _out_ by how calmly we're getting along. I guess I didn't give enough thought to how we left things in Jersey - perhaps things were more patched up than I gave them credit for.

I finish my wine and he takes my glass from me, sniffing it for a moment. He makes a face, "Yuck, where'd you find _this_?"

"In the kitchen, along with the crack cocaine, obviously."

"This is like, _barely_ even alcohol," he jerks his head towards the kitchen, "You have to get the goods, come on."

"Fred, I don't _drink_," I say pointedly, "That hasn't exactly changed since college. I'm not the girl who appreciates a good year, I'm the girl who appreciates wine that tastes more like grape juice."

"I remember," he says wistfully, "I think that made it all the more enjoyable when your roommate had a tendency of puking on you on Friday nights."

"Seven times in one year," I mutter with a grimace, and he breaks out into nostalgic laughter. I grin, "I haven't talked to Kay Smith in ages; I don't even know where she lives now."

"Look her up then," he says easily with a shrug, "That's the beauty of the internet."

"True," I sigh, retaking my seat at the foot of the stairs. He joins me, and we look out across the expanse of the living room, a carpet yet to be littered with playthings and stained with Gerber baby food. May Ben and Karen have the strength for parenthood with all its twists and turns.

"Why is Charlie outside?" Fred suddenly murmurs, sitting upright and glancing out the window of the back door. I follow his train of sight, and wave this off.

"Bad reaction to the wine, I told him to get a breather."

"Ah," he replies, keeping quiet for a couple moments. He then says tentatively, "I take it you heard about his sister, right?"

I turn to him, "Louisa? Yeah, I heard about her and Jimmy. That's what we're talking about, correct?" I search his face hesitantly for any true signs of the broken-hearted. Maybe remorse, or bitterness at the least. But Fred is all calm indifference when he speaks, and it's _genuine_. It makes me all the more confused.

He nods, looking down at his hands, "I was pretty shocked, to tell you the truth."

"I think we all are," I muse, "Or else, we never really expected it. They balance each other out, though. Like a relationship built on a seesaw."

"That's quite perceptive of you, Freud," Fred smiles quietly, and I swat at his arm, and he continues, "See, I knew how in love Jimmy had been with his girlfriend before she passed away. We were all expecting him to practically propose within a couple of months prior. You can't possess that kind of emotion on a whim."

"Sometimes people move on," I emphasize gently, looking away.

"I understand _that_," he says, "I guess I'm just shocked that he's moved on so easily." I glance back at him, and something strange comes across his face then, his dark eyes uncommonly bright.

"It doesn't make Jimmy a bad person," I say softly, feeling uncomfortable again. And we're so _quiet_ - when did we get this quiet?

"No, it just skewers my judgment of him," Fred says seriously, looking down again, "If you love somebody like that, you can't just throw away the memory of them - get over them in a heartbeat. You should not. You _don't_."

Okay, I am officially the Queen of being over-analytical here, but I can't exactly help the way my breath literally catches when he says this, and I'm pretty sure I'm blushing. It's almost as if... It's almost _as if_-

"There you are!" the lurking, slightly shaded presence that is Colin enters the room, stopping in his tracks when he realizes I'm accompanied. Fred, on the other hand, stands abruptly, looking at this stranger with a sense of guardedness. He's closed up again. And me? I'm ludicrously, fantastically confused.

I clear my throat, trying to get over my worked up emotions, and introduce the two of them to each other. Colin is all airy politeness (as usual), and Fred's perfectly civil too. He's just slightly more reserved when he extends a hand, looking a little wary. An uncomfortable moment of silence is shared between the three of us, and I'm revisited by the familiar feeling of when your past meets your present. It's just _weird_. I wring my hands together.

"I was just going to say," Colin clears his throat, turning towards me, "I was looking for you everywhere."

"You just did," Fred says coolly, and Colin blinks at him. He finally lapses into a smile, as if this were some well-spooled joke between the two of them, but Fred doesn't reciprocate the expression. Yeah, so, this is comfortable. Meanwhile, I'm still trying to make sense of Fred's words. So much for not reading into things. Sometimes my mind is like an engine. It goes into overdrive when it doesn't have to.

Thank God for Ben Harville, who upon his descent of the main staircase, addresses me warmly with, "Anne Elliot made it!" This pries my mind off of the matters at hand sufficiently enough.

"Ben!" I grin, meeting him at the foot for a hug, "Congratulations, again."

"Thank you," he bows humbly, glancing at Fred over my shoulder, "Wentworth, you digging in my wine cabinet again? I heard a couple people complaining about missing Zinfandel."

"It was practically empty anyway," Fred beams, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Of course," Ben says warily, before turning towards Colin without recognition. I _hate_ making introductions too, did I mention? It's like my life is defined by awkward moments like these. I don't know why, but suddenly I regret taking Colin along. He's like uncomfortable extra baggage, and I feel pretty awful for stringing him along like this. But it's not exactly like I forced him. So when Ben invites me upstairs to see Karen, I ask Colin if he wants to come with, and ignore the strange, disgruntled sound that comes from the back of Fred's throat.

"No, that's fine," Colin says with ease, "Go on, I'll be here."

"You sure?" I press, mostly doing so out of obligation to being a better friend - or whatever it is that we are.

"Positive," he nods, looking at Fred for a fraction of a second before turning to me. And so, I follow Ben Harville gratefully upstairs.

* * *

After seven and a half minutes, I'm convinced that Karen was born to be a mother. You wouldn't necessarily think so upon first introduction, but honestly, it's true. Is she one of those women whose crude, biting sarcastic remarks have simmered towards the gentle motherly type after giving birth? God _no_. But there's something so fitting about the way she cradles her child close to her chest, glowing and grinning and tittering and not even hormonal in the slightest. It just fits.

Maya Bailey, for the record, is exceptionally adorable. Even if she is pink, and wriggling.

"Look at that peach fuzz," I murmur, peering down at the sleeping infant tucked perfectly in Karen's arms. The bassinette lurks closely by, and I suspect the baby will be tucked in soon. She's just finished feeding, and is being burped periodically.

"Don't be fooled by it, Yoda," Karen mutters with a sly smirk, "That peach fuzz will fall pretty soon and be replaced by my glorious dark hair. Hopefully not Ben's, though, I don't think Maya's complexion can handle the sandy color."

I grin, lowering down to my knees to hover over the mother and daughter, "I've missed you, you know."

"Oh, I know," she says quickly, "I'm honestly that charming."

"Very modest, too."

"You know it," Karen laughs, tucking a dark curl of hers behind her ear. She coos and soothes the baby, whose eyes open and close slightly as sleepiness starts to creep in.

"She's kind of quiet," I observe.

"Not really," Karen shrugs, "She's normally a steamboat, seriously, and we're lucky to have her this drowsy after feeding."

"Hm," I nod, and she turns towards me.

"You're looking quite beautiful this evening, Miss Elliot," she says. I thank her, but I'm a bit wary as to the sly smirk on her face. And after a few moments, I realize it's with good reason.

"So, a little birdie told me you're here with a _date_," Karen grins secretively, and I'm suddenly reminded of Sophie, "This birdie would happen to be Ben, of course."

"Okay," I roll my eyes, "He is _not_ my date. He's a friend from the city, that's all. If you guys are going to try to embarrass me, you need better material."

"Really?" she says, smiling softly, "I think I have some dirt on you, I'm just afraid of bringing it up."

I peer at her skeptically, "Oh God, _what_?"

"Well," she stretches out the 'l', grinning at me. She stands and delicately lowers Maya into her bassinette, and the infant stirs and yawns in such a manner that could practically melt stone hearts. Drawing up the blankets around her, she perches the baby monitor close and takes me by the wrist. "Come on, out into the hall," her voice lowers to a whisper, and I follow her outside.

Karen closes the door behind her, her grin creeping up again, "Okay, it's not exactly dirt, it's more wild assumption."

I sigh, crossing my arms over my chest, "Let's hear it."

"Did something happen between you and Fred?"

I balk for only a moment, stunned from my speech.

"Should I take your blatant deer-in-headlights look as a '_yes'_?" Karen gasps, pressing her hands to her mouth. I've forgotten to tell her how lovely she looks, post-pregnancy, practically glowing in a very pretty violet purple frock. But this suddenly falls behind the point of her slight accusation.

"No, you should _not_," I say quickly, "Karen, that's ridiculous!"

"Is it?" she asks, "I could have sworn I saw some interesting exchanges back in Jersey."

"That was just your pregnancy delirium," I roll my eyes, desperately hoping that I'm not blushing.

She stares at me with narrowed eyes, as if waiting for a rupture in my resolve. Unfathomably, it never comes, so she just smiles slyly again. Tossing her hair back, she saunters past with a chirp of, "If you're sure!" But then again, I'm not exactly sure that she's convinced.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Wow, this is a biggie. May I just openly apologize for blatantly ripping the title of this chapter from a Season Five episode of _Sex and the City_? It just seemed so fitting (sorry HBO execs). Honestly, it's all out of love! Anyway, I certainly enjoyed writing this (tension, tension), and hopefully you guys enjoyed the update. I don't know how frequently they'll come, I'm back in school, and I'm in for one hell of a year. But I'll try to update consistently. Thanks for reading, and please review!


	14. Life In Progress

It's really unfair the way time sashays past in the blink of an eye. It's plain _deceiving_, is what it is. And yet, that's the way Sunday, September 14th rolled by, with yours truly springing out of bed with the happy exclamation of, "_Fuck_, I start work tomorrow."

Awkward.

Not that I've thought of much else for the last couple of weeks _but_ my new employment. Purposely, mind you, my head's been too full of nonsense to do otherwise. There's been the careful screening of Colin Ewing's calls, and the precise avoidance of Pop and Elizabeth. Though the latter has been a fairly simple task - My father is so _freakishly_ enthralled with our neighbors (Tiffany Rymple and Co.) that he spends nearly every waking moment taking "tea" with "that charming woman". Mm, all we need to do to this picture is physically attach his lips to her ass. Or you know, at least make Elizabeth don some petticoats and throw in a reticule. Seriously, _tea_? What century are we in again?

Not that I'm particularly objective to the lack of Elliot presence around the apartment. But Colin? It's just been _weird_. Bordering on midnight phone calls and a disturbing provocation for starting "tickle fights", even. Yes, apparently he's now _that_ kind of guy. These alleged "fights" don't go that far though, around the seventh second I tend to accidentally punch him. In the face. But still, it's giving me the creeps. Ever since the Harville's, he's been disastrously protective.

I would say it was some bizarre, territorial twitch he picked up when he saw that Fred and I had some sort of past-related connection, but mentioning this makes me reel Fred Wentworth back from the periphery of my mind and into the present. Which just addles my brain all the more to the point of frustration.

See, for all our "buddy-buddy" moments at the Harville's, everything exchanged between Fred and I evaporated pretty quickly. In fact, the man himself weaved out of the company only fifteen minutes into dinner - Just up and left, and never took the bait to meet my eye. He looked like somebody had just run over his kitten or he had swallowed a toothpick. Or both. I _still_ can't understand it.

I mean, I'd _like_ to convince myself that it's because Colin had his arm around me, but:

A) Fred and I are long-since over, and whatever imaginings I have about "rekindled feelings" (angst, angst) are _probably_, belay that, _indefinitely_ false. So in theory, why should he care?

B) My overactive mind gets a sick giggle out of stimulating jealousy - True story. But he's not, so to reemphasize my earlier statement, why should he _care_?

In the end, I think this new job is what I need. A well-timed distraction in a creative environment. I'm mostly prepared too. I've even toured the building last week with my supervisor, and it looks harmless enough, but I haven't taken office hijinks into account - Or creepy co-workers, or even clients. But the wonderful thing about this job is that I can still do freelance; they're extremely flexible, and work isn't completely tailor-made for the office. I am interning though, but apparently a recent client became interested in my work. I've yet to meet with her.

Oh, but in a strange twist of fate (or just some expert Googling), I finally took Fred's advice and located my dubious roommate, Kay Smith. She still positively leaks expletives, but she's apparently kicked her drinking habit. And smoking habit. And consensual sex-with-strangers habit. Or so she tells me in our widely spaced phone interviews. But apparently Kay works around twenty blocks off from Banter & Steele's (the small children's publishing company that has recently abducted me) - So lunch dates will be duly exchanged. It's a breath of fresh air after an entire slot of four years filled with puke and cigarette butts and way too much patience on my behalf over an extra someone sleeping in the bottom bunk of our dorm.

God, I have interesting friends.

* * *

**Author's Note:** All together now, can we say, "Filler Chapter"? _Hee_. In all honestly, this one is needed, I thank you. It shifts the plot along. And yes, it is dismally short, and I will own up to the fact that I am an utter asswipe for stalling an update that is practically a fraction of an inch more than a blurb. But I'm really bogged down with work lately, so these updates will be widely spaced, and I apologize! Either way, I can't thank you guys enough for being so supportive and wonderful. Your feedback and encouragement mean a lot, thanksmuch. I'll try to update again this weekend. If not, probably next weekend.


	15. Big Fish in a Little Pond

"I'm pretty sure you're a moron," Ben harps happily, sipping his coffee with a cheery smile I'd really have no objection to slapping off of his face. Instead, I glare pretty intensely. But I'm not exactly sure this is effective enough.

"Oh, the death-glare," he sighs emphatically, arching an eyebrow, "It's practically searing a hole in my heart, Freddy, I've got to tell you." The monotone and sarcasm are not duly appreciated.

"You're an asshole."

"Of course," he smiles warmly, setting his mug aside, "But you know I offer nothing but honesty."

"That's true," I sigh, glancing out the window reluctantly. We're on the outskirts of Philadelphia, at an authentically filmy diner, at one of _several_ rest stops just off of I-95. And honestly? I'm constantly self-doubting myself for even venturing out here.

It's bad enough that I'm _this_ much of a pussy that I actually had to drag my _best friend_ with me on this harebrained journey - Away from his newborn infant and lovely, hormonal wife. It's official, I'm a dickhead.

I voice my dubious title.

"Okay, guilt check here," Ben takes a bite out of his turkey sandwich, brushing the crumbs daintily off of his collar, "I _insisted_ that I drive you - I'm pretty sure I've said this like, thirty five times already."

"But I should've been more defiant," I mutter, burying my face in my hands, "Seriously, you have a child back home."

"Wow, you make it sound like we're in some epic war drama and you've just recruited me to the dark side," he blinks abruptly, "Hey _Newsweek_, reality check here. I'm just dropping you off - a few hours outside of New York do not equal catastrophe."

"But-"

"For the love of God," he grumbles, "Karen's got both parents over today. Have you _met_ her folks? Think Rottweiler - insanely protective, overbearing, spoil-_frenzied_ Rottweiler. They are God's perfected version of grandparents. They may as well be machines armed with diaper genies."

"Mary Poppins of sorts?" I laugh.

"Except without the umbrellas and chimney sweeps, I'm pretty sure, _yes_," Ben nods matter-of-factly, "So quit eating yourself up with this guilt-bullshit, Fred. Or so help me, I will abandon you at this diner and you will live off of saltines and sketchy clam chowder for the rest of your life."

"Or I could y'know, hitch a _ride_."

"Don't be a jackass and ruin my tailor-made threat, okay? That's gold, don't touch," he warns with a steely glare and I grin, extremely thankful for his companionship. I think he's the only one on the face of the Earth keeping me sane at this point, ironically enough.

It's really your true friends who will welcome you into their home at an ungodly hour of the night to have a heart-to-heart with coffee and not give you bullshit that you're a _guy_ and you're not exactly _supposed_ to have heart-to-hearts. See, if this were say, Charlie or Jimmy, I'm pretty sure they would either just fidget uncomfortably or tell me to grow some balls. Abruptly. Be_fore_ the complimentary door slam.

But that's what happened two weeks ago, when I drove all the way up to Syracuse from Manhattan, in a shoddy rental, at one-thirty in the morning to abashedly seek advice. I was going _insane_ back home. Partly because my mind is split in two, and partly because I honestly feel like I can't burden anybody with my troubles at this point. But Ben pried it loose.

It's really all because of her.

Yeah, so, I hate myself. Really.

Honestly, he's right - I really am a moron. I'm bitter and calculating, and I can't let things go. And suddenly when I _can_, the timing is so completely fucked up that I flee like a bat fresh out of hell. Either I have astoundingly bad luck or the universe has recently decided, via popular vote, that it's just not fond of one, Fred Wentworth.

"So have we ironed out the details of the Game Plan?" Ben's voice snaps me back into present and I glance up, "Welcome back to the Earth."

"Thanks," I mumble, rubbing my eyes, "Um, well I called Sophie, and she's trying to arrange something."

"I love this, I feel like some ridiculously evil accomplice," Ben looks pensive, his eyes narrowing, "I should grow a goatee."

"Do _not_ grow a goatee," I warn icily.

"It's okay to be jealous," he nods surely, swallowing a bite of his sandwich. He pauses for a couple moments, embracing all seriousness, "So, you basically just want to go over to Philly to see what things are like - to see if she's really attached before you drop a bomb and potentially humiliate yourself like hell."

"In a nutshell, yes," I nod.

"And we do this inconspicuously by-" Ben encourages, waving his hand.

"Having my equally vindictive older sister arrange a harmless dinner that seems completely coincidental so I can talk to my ex-girlfriend alone," I explain in a rushed exhalation, not liking the way nerves are making my stomach knot in pieces.

"Meanwhile, you'll just camp out at Sophie's place, right? For a week or two?"

"That's the plan," I mutter, burying my head onto folded arms on the table, which smells suspiciously like old pizza and maybe vomit. I sit back up quickly.

"For the record, I'm proud of you," Ben suddenly says, catching my eye from across the table as he fiddles with the napkin dispenser - draping condiments on the metallic structure to form facial features. He glances up for a moment, "I really think it takes a lot of swallowing pride and guts to do what you're doing, even if you're going to deny it as soon as I stop speaking. And even if there's a high percentage you'll get totally trampled on by the situation _anyway_."

"Thanks, Ben."

"Anytime," he grins, "And if it makes you feel any better, I don't think she's serious about that guy. He gave _me_ subtle creep vibes, and Anne's an abnormally perceptive girl."

"I know, right?" I mutter, vaguely disgusted, "I just hope she can see that. There's something about him that I really don't trust."

"There's also absolutely _no_ possibility that you could be prematurely hateful because he is, actually, dating your ex-girlfriend," Ben mumbles sarcastically, continuing his napkin fortress with fierce concentration.

"He's just too smooth," I shrug, "Your basic teleprompter. I just hope to God she sees that."

"Even if she does," Ben winces, "You have to remember that it's a long shot that she may take you back."

"Ouch," I blink.

"Would _you_ take you back?"

"I hate self-hypotheticals."

"Of course you do," Ben laughs incredulously, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Look, all I'm saying is to put yourself in her shoes. Okay? She had to put up with a lot of shit from you this summer, and please don't peg that all on Louisa Musgrove. I'm pretty sure your little pawn was only a smidge of that plan, and you shamelessly used her."

"Thanks for summing me up as the ultimate bastard, Ben, honestly," I rub my face wearily, "I totally forgot that I'm a complete asshole for a couple minutes there."

"You're welcome," he nods without sympathy.

"Are you basically saying that this is a lost cause?" I sigh. I hate my life.

"No, I'm just being a realist," Ben shrugs, "I'll lay off if it makes you feel better."

"It would also make me feel better if you stopped mentioning Louisa," I inform him, "That's an entirely fixed matter, and I'm pretty sure I've stopped beating myself up about it until now."

He grunts in response, looking peeved, "Only if you don't bring up Jimmy."

I nod, agreeing to his terms. I have my own disagreements about Jimmy and Louisa, sure, but nothing compares to the staunch negativity from Ben Harville. He was good friends with Sarah, Jimmy's would-be fiancée, and to see her abruptly replaced by somebody like Louisa _is_ disappointing. It bothers me less because I see Louisa more as a transition relationship for Jimmy, which is a shame. Partly because they're miles away on the personality and beliefs spectrum, and partly because Louisa may not understand that she's practically a rebound - I feel sorry for her.

"So," Ben sighs, rubbing his temples for a moment, "Let's get a move on, shall we? Will Sophie mind if we're late?"

"I don't think she cares," I shrug, drumming my fingers on the tabletop, "Truth be told, we haven't seen each other in so long that any reunion is welcome at this point. It's just strange as hell though, you know?" I look up, shaking my head, "Because it's _her_-"

"Old home," Ben completes my sentence with a wistful smile, "Got to love the irony."

"Mm," I nod. After a moment, I sigh, "I miss her."

"Sophie?" Ben asks through a mouthful of turkey sandwich.

"No," I reply, "Well, yes, but that wasn't who I was--"

"Yeah, yeah," Ben smiles crookedly, shaking his head, "I know. Fight me if you will, but I don't really think you were ever over her. I actually think you'd have to be an _idiot_ to be."

"I agree," I groan loudly, stretching the last syllable and burying my head in my arms again, just at the inopportune moment that our waitress swings by to slide the tab over. She blinks a couple times and clears her throat.

"Ignore him, he's got issues," Ben says enthusiastically, but this doesn't exactly help our cause. When the waitress leaves, he observes, "You know, this has the potential to be a _Lifetime_ program. You're a writer; you should get this thing down in script format."

"Yes, because my first thought _after_ the emotional heartache is to gain profit from an estrogen-laced made-for-television movie," I balk, "And thanks for pushing the point that I'm being a sap."

"You're welcome," he laughs brightly, "Who do you think should play you? I'm feeling Edward Norton."

"I am _not_ an Edward Norton," I blink a couple times, "And since when would Edward Norton do _Lifetime_?"

"This is true," he rubs his chin for a moment, "Gabriel Macht?"

"Closer," I shrug, sliding some bills under my coffee mug as a tip, "I'm kind of slighter though."

"Somebody taller than Norton and skinnier than Macht then," Ben nods concretely, "I think I'm pretty much a Brad Pitt."

"I think you're delusional," I point out.

"You're right, my eyes are a lot dreamier than his," Ben sighs, "I should ask Karen."

"Karen would say something refreshing and loving along the lines of she loves you just for who you are and that she wouldn't jump into the sack with a hunky actor in place of you, even if you died," I note, taking a last sip from my coffee.

"I don't know," Ben grimaces, "She's really digging Orlando Bloom these days - I don't _get_ why anybody would fall for that little fairy, baby-faced sh-"

"Okay," I interrupt him quickly, mostly because his voice has increased by a full octave and the elderly couple in the booth behind us has gotten eerily silent, "You done?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Ben sighs, eyes darting inconspicuously.

* * *

Elizabeth does her makeup daintily at the kitchen table, swiping electric blue eyeshadow over her lids - the effect looks clownish, but I stay resolutely silent until she forcibly drags me over to line her eyes in the midst of my preparations for dinner. Freshly washed tomatoes and leaves of basil are duly tossed.

"You have a really steady hand," s he all but whimpers, pressing the MAC pencil into my palm, "And the club Evey and I are hitting tonight is pure class, so I need to look my best."

You might want to rethink the eye shadow, I want to say, _and_ the tube top. But I sigh, and begin to line her upper lid carefully. While I do so, she gives me a quick once over, "You're dressed a lot cuter now since you've started work."

"Just some pencil skirts and pumps," I shrug, "It _is_ an office."

"It's nice to see you out of jeans," she notes, "You look pretty."

"Thanks," I grin, simultaneously put at ease since we're bonding for the first time in say, _years_. The apartment is pretty hushed otherwise, since our father's at the Rymples - again. I bring this up.

"I think he's in love with her," Elizabeth yawns with evident boredom, "I mean, we'd be pretty insanely rich if they married, don't you think? It's a perfect solution."

"To what," I balk, rimming her lower lash line, "Settling debt?"

"Definitely," Liz nods, "Though her daughter's extremely boring - she has a designer closet though, that's a win."

"It amazes me how shallow you are," I mumble, handing the pencil back to her.

She smiles shrewdly, completely unapologetic, "Thanks for the lecture, Career Girl," she stands, brushing her lustrous blonde hair past her shoulder, "It's been one week, you don't have to get preachy."

"I'm not," I murmur, taking my place back at the sink where I take up peeling cucumbers for a salad. But the fact that she's acknowledging my job feels important. I'm actually completely relaxed with the way things are going at Banter & Steele's - it's a lovely, close-knit community with well-known clients and a flexible working environment. I haven't really made good friends with anybody yet, but all have been exceptionally friendly.

"Hm, guess we missed some messages," Liz sighs, punching in a couple of digits by the home phone receiver beside me. I continue preparing vegetables while she enters the mailbox number, and suddenly our kitchen is filled with a (slightly) grating, familiar voice:

"Hey Anne, it's Colin," I wince, as the message pauses for a second, "Just calling to see if you have any plans this weekend - I haven't heard from you in a while. You're not screening my calls, are you?" A slightly desperate, nasal laugh - I wince again, this time feeling a little sorry for him, "Anyway, just call me back when you can. Thanks."

Liz has her lips pursed, fighting a chesire cat grin with every fiber of her being, "Well, look here."

I roll my eyes.

"Somebody's smitten," she glances briefly at her fingernails, "Playing hard-to-get?"

"_No_," I scoff, "Not even close."

Her blue eyes widen exponentially, "Please don't tell me you're actually screening his calls, he's really cute."

"He's really _creepy_," I mumble fiercely, pausing. I don't know when my opinion had begun to lurch, but apparently I now feel this way. It's a little unfair - I might just be trying to purposely dislike him.

Maybe because I'm still hung up on somebody else.

Not really.

Okay, _fine_, I am.

"You're _blushing_," Elizabeth balks with disbelief, wildly amused.

Damn it.

Thankfully, our topic of choice simmers before she can read between the lines. She punches in another number and the next message rattles off, and my peeler clanks dully to the bottom of the sink when I hear Sophie's melodic tone fill the kitchen in place of Colin's dank one to invite me to dinner next Saturday night for old time's sake.

"Oh my God, I'd love to!" I exclaim, pressing my hands to my chest.

"Dumbass, it's a voicemail," Liz cocks an eyebrow.

"I know _that_," I sigh, "I just miss her like hell - with her cute little Sophie-isms and lemongrass tea."

"Gross," Liz wrinkles her nose, retrieving a People magazine from the counter. The wheels of her mind click then and she glances back up at me, an eyebrow staunchly raised, "Wait a minute - Sophie Wentworth."

"Mm," I nod, bringing the peeler sharply over a lopsided cucumber.

"_Wentworth_," Elizabeth repeats audibly, "Anne, this isn't about - You're not--"

"_No_," I sigh with exasperation, wiping my brow quickly, "I'm not. Can we stop with assumptions? I'm still friends with Sophie. Nothing has happened, or will happen between me and Fred. I'm pretty sure he never wants to see me again judging by our last encounter. Okay? _Okay_. Thanks."

So, I sound slightly psychotic and hysterical _but_, I think I've managed to get the point across because Liz sinks into uncharacteristic silence instead of firing off a comeback - Which is odd.

"Okay," she murmurs.

Thankfully, the apartment intercom chimes shortly after and she flits to the foyer to buzz Evelyn up - leaving me, once again, to confront my own thoughts.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well, a promise is a promise, and here's the next chapter. The first, distinctly best friend-centered portion is dedicated (yes, I can dedicate portions of chapters, _what?_) to Gregory House and James Wilson of _House_ - who simply must realize that they are OTP/BFF (...F! _Pineapple Express_?) and get over their differences this season. It's making me sniffle. But the PI is love.

Okay, extremely off-topic.

Thanks for reading and reviewing! Oh, and a huge, huge hug to readers who were extremely sweet and supportive about the last update concerning its length and wait. You have no idea how much your support means, and thank you to those who didn't metaphorically bite my head off (hee). Excuses aside (well, not really), I really _am _trying to grind these out as fast as I can. But I am an increasingly sleep-deprived student, whose Junior year is decidedly hellish what with AP courses and the like. So I honestly appreciate all the love and understanding. Thank you so much.

Oh, and you may have noticed title-fiddling. What can I say? It's a bitch, because I'm usually so good with titles. This one is extremely "Meh!" and undecided as of late. I'm feeling this one, but don't be alarmed if it inexplicably changes on you. I apologize in advance for any unintentional confusion it may cause! That would be suck-y.


	16. A Pawn and a Rooke

"You're _crippled_," I stagger, staring wide-eyed into the bemused face of Kay Smith. Changes I first note? Her auburn hair is angled to her chin, the dark makeup is gone in favor of a more polished look, oh - and she's _crippled_.

"I am _not_ crippled," Kay rolls her eyes pointedly. The clever, sprightly middle-aged nurse who led me inside the studio apartment leans over to my side, inspecting her nails briefly while she gives me a brief muttering of what could be considered the dish, the scoop, the 411 on the fact that my ex-roommate is now a _cripple_. As Les Mis lyrics once sputtered; _"I am agog, I am aghast."_

"Kay got herself into a parachuting accident, Toots - cleanly broken leg," the nurse shrugs airily, instantaneously sucking the drama from the equation; I sulk just slightly.

"Oh," I blink, dumping my satchel on the floor, "Did she just call me '_Toots'_?"

"Nurse Rooke likes to pretend she has New York flair, even though she works in Philadelphia," Kay grins, wobbling forth on her crutches, "Despite the fact that she's from _Connecticut_."

"_Ohio_," Rooke raises an eyebrow, securing her arm through the crook of my ex-roomate's, "I took the liberty of setting tea in the living room, you know - Somebody has to make sure you're a decent hostess, Crutchy."

"Very noble, thanks," Kay smiles, "C'mon, Annie -- _Git Yer Gun_."

"Never heard _that_ one," I roll my eyes, grinning. I follow my stumbling old friend into the living space, an art deco room adorned in contemporary furnishings that do not seem fitting in the salaries that pop up in our type of trade. I'd feel like a snob to inquire more, so I simply settle and decide to hush up.

I'm happy to visit my friend in the first place, and relieved that we've shoved aside time this week. We had extensive phone calls as of late but haven't met up until now. Though my father wasn't too pleased with where I was headed today, even after I explained to him that Kay Smith was an old, near and dear friend and we wanted to reunite.

_"Smith?" he scoffed, tightening his suspenders, "_There's_ an original name. God, your friends are so common."_

Ridiculous.

Nurse Rooke props Kay's crutches onto the armchair, helping her patient onto the loveseat so that her battered leg may be cushioned by the matching ottoman. I sit beside her and fold my hands into my lap.

"So who had the bright idea to take your sorry ass parachuting?" I ask innocently, reaching forward to grab a mug of tea. It's plain Earl Grey, and not the herbal infusions Sophie once got me hooked onto - but I appreciate the warm welcome.

Kay Smith's face illuminates completely, a mega-watt smile gracing her features, "Luke Ascot; just the fellow I've been dating for oh say, three years."

"Look out," I laugh, "Three _years_? This coming from the Queen of Flings?"

"Things change," she smiles warmly, "He's actually a very stable, adorable sweet man, it was _me_ who dragged him parachuting. Me, who incidentally got into a bit of a tussle too, but that's my luck."

I'm momentarily distracted by the glittering gleam coming from Kay's ring finger of her left hand.

"Is that," I gape, pulling her hand under my nose, "Are _you_--"

"I didn't say anything," she chirps unassumingly.

"En_gaged_?" I say the word as if it's almost insulting. Of course it isn't, but you don't understand - this is Kay Smith. The flighty girl of my college years who had partner-ADD. I'm pretty sure she kept shoes longer than relationships.

"I love him," she smiles sunnily, "Wipe that judgment off your face, please and thanks."

"Sorry Kay, I'm just floored here," I laugh, "Congratulations! Is this his place?"

"Yep," she says, tracing her forefinger around the rim of her ceramic mug, "He's a broker - As if an artist could afford this place, you know? Though I do pay for groceries, and we take turns with billing."

"There's a start," I laugh, shaking my head, "My God, sweetie. I remember when we graduated, you were still hung up on that guy, Raymond."

"George," she corrects steadily.

"_Right_," I brush this off, "The screenplay writer."

"Dental assistant?" Kay snorts openly, "God, Anne! I could at least keep track of your boyfriends those years."

"Such an easy task, I only had one," I swatted her.

"And what a one," Kay chews the inside of her cheek thoughtfully, "The-One-That-Got-Away."

"The-One-I-_Chased_-Away," I mutter, disliking the slight lump that forms in my throat, "Can we talk about something else?"

"Don't tell me this is all fresh and new, Anne," Kay smirks, "This is practically the Prehistoric Era."

"Not so much," I mutter under my breath, desperate for a change in topic, "So when's the wedding?"

"No, no, no," her eyes narrow skeptically, "Something's askew with your reaction here. I thought this whole ordeal was a toughened callous by now."

And because Kay is so unnervingly persuasive, I spill. Fortunately, not much is shared aside from the circumstances that brought us into reacquaintance this summer, and a smidge about his particular brand of assholishness with Louisa Musgrove.

"Well _shit_," Kay laughs, wide-eyed, our drained mugs perched across from us on the end table, "That's just freaky, Anne."

"Tell me about it."

"Fred sounds like an utter asswipe though," she pouts, "All throughout that first year, I had him pegged as one of those adorably sweet, witty types. Very sarcastic and the barest bit of cynical, but you guys were so fucking cute, so who cared?"

"Please stop," I wince.

"Tough break," she shakes her head, "People _do_ change."

"Well, he's not an _asshole_," I mumble, "I understand that he was still hurt. I scalded the guy pretty badly."

"Who can forget that?" Kay grins.

"I'm going to hit you - I don't care if you're a pseudo-cripple," I warn, and she dissolves into giggles.

"Oh me, oh my," Kay sighs, fanning herself theatrically, "You need to get yourself another guy. I don't see why you haven't; you're pretty, intelligent, well-rounded."

"Neurotic," I complete, laughing, "Thank you. I was seeing this one guy I was really into for awhile. But all this nonsense with Fred completely got to me, and I shoved him aside after awhile."

"Bummer," Kay grimaces, "You need to empty your mind; give people chances."

"I know," I sigh, "It's just I don't feel as interested. And the guy seems really desperate, almost, he wasn't like that before. I'm just not interested in being with anybody right now."

"Anybody?" she asks quietly, "Or somebody else?" I glance up at her, confused, and she waves this off with, "Never mind. So what's his name, this newbie?"

"Colin Ewing," I mutter; her spoon clatters in her mug sharply, and I look up to find that she's gotten slightly pale.

"Colin _Ewing_," she winces, "Not of the Philadelphia publishing house _Ewings_, dear God, please tell me."

I frown, "What's wrong?"

"Anne," she takes my hand, "Watch out with him. He's a slick, slick bastard. You haven't given him any of your passwords or PIN numbers have you?"

"What?" I laugh, "Of course not." I want to make a joke about this absurdity, but then I feel the color drain from my face, "Oh God, he's not a _criminal_, is he?" Life can't be that twisted, can it? I feel like throwing up.

"Not really," she mutters sharply, "He was involved in the stock market around four years ago, worked with my fiancé. Let me tell you, if Luke ever sees him again, he'll most likely wring his neck. I can't believe he's back in Philadelphia."

"What happened?" I ask, insides clenching.

"Colin Ewing was in a bit of a financial crisis a few years ago. His rich daddy didn't trust him with the company, and kept him on an extremely short leash. Now, guys like these have extremely extravagant lifestyles, you understand?" Kay asks.

"Go on."

"Ewing's savings were plummeting, so Luke, being a sweetheart, kept helping him with loans, right? Ewing _completely_ dicked him over, gambled the loaned money within weeks," Kay smiles with bitter disgust, "Oh, and this was right before he slept with Luke's then-girlfriend, by the way."

"Oh my God," I recoil, horrified. I was almost ninety percent sure that I actually _would_ throw up.

"I heard things about him," Kay makes a face, "Very syrupy and fake, very rehearsed."

"I may vomit."

"Look," Kay sighs, "I'm not saying he hasn't changed, okay? From what you've described, the fact that he sounds that desperate and hasn't even gotten far with you says a lot. It sounds like he _really_ likes you. You're a different type of girl. I'm just saying that he's not exactly the world's best--"

"Don't stick up for him," I say sharply, "I don't want anything to do with somebody like that."

"If you want, I'll sic Rooke on him," Kay juts her thumb backward into the next room, "I swear, she supplies the biggest gossip; ears like a jungle cat, I can get the information."

"That's okay," I laugh forcibly, "_Really_."

Honestly, it seems as if I had been drifting from Colin at an opportune time. Part of me is mortified, and part of me is relieved. And when I leave the blunt, only slightly vague voicemail on his cell that afternoon, I don't regret it. Something to the variant of, "I'm really tied down with work as of late and am not really interested in dating. 'Kay, thanks, never contact me again."

I'm pretty sure the last line might have been plucked and tweaked into something more appropriate. I leave Kay's apartment with a reeling head, unable to grasp things, even as I proceed further into the city to catch the subway. A little more composed twenty minutes later, I take a seat and rest my head against the window, pulling things out from my bag. My sketchbook mainly, my salvation and de-stressor. It hasn't been touched since Jersey.

I open to the newest sheet, the shady profile of a man with dusky hair and a sharp jaw line Karen tried to identify - I still have no idea who I had intended to draw. But my cell phone vibrates sharply against my thigh then and distracts me.

"Hello?" I mumble, feeling a migraine approach.

"Anne, you sound like _shit_," Sophie chimes worriedly, and I clear my throat.

"I'm just tired, Soph - How are you?"

She buzzes past pleasantries, "Listen sweetie, would you by any chance be able to make it this Saturday instead of the next for dinner?" she hesitates, sounding troubled, "Just a time snaffoo going on here."

I bite my lip, "I'm tied down this Saturday with work - how about Sunday?"

Sophie pauses again, sounding discouraged, "Sunday? That's the only day you can make it this weekend?" I hear a shuffle of voices in the background, and I frown, curious.

"Yeah, I'm sorry Soph. I take it _next_ Saturday won't work?"

"No, it'll be too late by then," she says quickly, before I can ask her to elaborate, "You know what? We'll make Sunday work; we'll just shift it to an earlier hour - say, four-thirty?"

"Um, that's fine?" I reply, thrown in a bit of a loop from her uncharacteristic shiftiness, "Everything okay? You sound frazzled."

"Everything's great," she replies hurriedly, and I can hear the quick grin in her voice, "See you Sunday, sweetie."

She hangs up before me and I slide the phone closed. I chuck it into my bag and sigh, not willing to understand _anybody_ anymore. It's just been a strange day. Taking up my sketchbook again as the subway lurches to a rest at its next stop, I fill in the details of my sketch of this stranger. I stop roughly thirty seconds after, to find, in _extreme_ confusion, that I've actually been drawing Fred Wentworth all this time.

I don't really know why I couldn't tell before. Same jaw and nose, same length of hair - it hadn't really dawned until I started the eyes.

I shove the book back into my satchel quickly, and I don't touch it again.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Wow, I think I only have three chapters left planned for this story! Incredible. It's a shifty number of course, but let's just say that this tale is coming to its end pretty soon! I'm kind of excited. You guys are all lovely, as ever. Just wanted to get to updating in my first free weeknight in awhile (I'm off tomorrow, yes! - I mean, I'm fasting for religious purposes, but still, a day off is a day off).

And yes, we have successfully rubbed out Colin Ewing - you all can stop shuddering at his creepiness now, I promise! Otherwise, thanks for reading and please review!


	17. Damn Its & Torrential Downpour

My mood, well into the next week, takes a deliberate nosedive into a puddle of hell. These seven days consist of waking, making speedy coffee runs, working slightly sporadic hours, and trying with all my might _not_ to think about Fred Wentworth. It's making me exceedingly crabby. I've started snapping at people.

"Tightwad crossing," Elizabeth chirps brightly, toothbrush in hand as she leaves me the bathroom to myself that early Saturday morning. I glare at her over my shoulder but proceed. It doesn't help that she's used most of the toothpaste either, but I guess this is payment for erupting on her at the dinner table last night, when she asked me if I had been using whole wheat pasta.

I wash my face, leaning my elbows wearily over the counter. Thankfully, I have little to no errands to run this weekend. I'm actually relieved - maybe I can lock myself in my studio and paint, or settle down with some green tea and watch _Friends_ reruns or whatever happens to be on television. The thought is liberating.

So I spend the better half of the day being a hermit, and around two o'clock, I pull myself together. It's just dinner with Sophie and David, I'm assuming - so I just shrug into jeans and a short-sleeved blouse, and then unhook my peacoat from the front closet when I realize that the weather is appropriately churning in some chill, now that we're coasting into autumn and the temperature is dancing between late forties and fifties.

It isn't until I snatch the keys to our sedan from the front table, unlatch and open the door, that I scream. Mostly because his presence just freaked the living shit out of me, but still - Colin Ewing, fist raised in preparation to knock, lowers his arm and shoves both hands into his sweatshirt.

This is uncomfortable.

"Hey Anne," he smiles a little bitterly.

"Colin," I nod, frowning thoughtfully, "In the neighborhood?"

"No," he coughs into his fist, looking a little distraught, "Not really, I came to see you, concerning the message you left me. I just have to ask - Did I do something wrong?" His slate eyes are really wide, and for a second I feel a genuine ping of sympathy.

I wince, really dreading this conversation, especially since Kay's newly delivered information about Colin Ewing runs on a loop in my brain. I lean against the doorframe and pinch the bridge of my nose, thinking of the right words to say.

"Look," he squares his shoulders, "If there's somebody else, I just want to know, okay?"

This intrigues me, and I glance back up, "Why would you assume there's somebody else?"

"Well," he rolls his eyes, "I know you wrote it off as being bogged with work, which I don't exactly doubt. But you've been distant for awhile." He looks extremely peeved now, "And then when I went with you to Syracuse, and that _Fred_ guy, or whatshisface--"

I gawk, springing down from the front step, and hold my palms wide open, "Say _what_ now?" I scoff, "Colin, Fred has nothing to do--"

"Anne, you're a great girl, really," Colin smirks unpleasantly, "And a shit liar, you should know."

"But--"

"If you _really_ can't see the way that guy looked at you," he rolls his eyes again, "then you're a lot less perceptive than I thought you were."

And then I can't say anything for a whole minute. So much for banning Fred Wentworth from my mind, I get daily reminders flung at me from _every_ source. But his words make me a lot more pensive than I'm willing to be at this point.

"I'm not seeing anybody else, Colin," I finally murmur, exasperated, "I'm just not interested anymore."

"_Ouch_," he says, quietly but with a sneer that reminds me of my father's.

"Sorry," I mumble, word vomit threatening to spill. I really want to call him out on the shit and absolute hell he gave Luke Ascot, but it sticks inside my throat. I get what Kay has said - I can tell that Colin really liked me at some point, and a fraction of me (the pushover, knock-kneed girl) feels like a jackass. But she's overtaken now by somebody stronger.

I push past him quietly, "Look, I'm sorry that you had to come this way to seek me out, and I'm sorry if I disappointed you. I didn't want to. But, I really have to go."

"Yeah," Colin mutters, blue eyes narrowed slightly, "I understand."

I notice that he's shivering slightly, being clad only in a sweatshirt. I jut my thumb backwards toward the house, "Do you want a scarf or something?"

"No, I'm fine," he nods briskly, "I'll leave you to it."

"Okay," I say, nodding, and turn to shuffle towards the street.

"And Anne?"

"Yeah?" I glance over my shoulder, squinting against the afternoon sunlight.

He looks at me thoughtfully for a second, "I really hope this Fred guy is a worthy opponent if I lost you to him."

The absolute ridiculousness of this statement almost unhinges me, and I clap my hands over my ears, groaning, "Colin, there is _nothing_--"

"Anne Elliot, wake up and smell the coffee at some point, okay?" he rolls his eyes, smirks bitterly and turns on his heel.

Needless to say, the drive to Kellynch is a complete and utter bitch. I'm not one to have road rage, but when I get emotional, it usually lands on that colorful patch of anger. This is confusion and frustration at its best and competing with pre-rush hour traffic only adds fuel to the flame.

It doesn't make any sense that Fred would still have feelings for me, regardless of what anybody seems to notice. Besides, I'm pretty certain it was just Colin's jealousy kicking into overdrive. I mean, the Harvilles' pet parakeet could have looked at me meaningfully and he might have snapped.

And I really, _really_ hate the part of me that wants him to be right.

But the rest of that evening at the Harvilles makes no sense to justify his theory - Fred Wentworth had one of the coldest, most bitter expressions I've ever seen him take on, and the fact that he avoided me for the better half of the night does not exactly hint at favorable feelings. I mean _really_.

By the time I arrive at Sophie's two and a half hours later, not only have I worked myself into such an over-analytical, enraged stupor - It's also raining buckets, torrents slashing against the windshield and soaking me completely as I make a dash through the (for once) well-kept lawn of my former home.

God, I regret not installing a porch, especially since it takes the Crofts _eons_ to wrench the door open, at which point the scarlet peacoat has become my second skin, and my hair's a sopping mess.

"Oh God, _Anne_," David Croft, bespectacled and dark-haired, ushers me in, and doesn't seem to mind when I wring my hair on his foyer rug. "You're drenched."

"Yeah," I mutter, glancing up at him, mid-shiver, "Um, hello."

"Hey," he beams brightly, and I'm reminded that I actually always liked him - especially when he makes a quick sprint from the laundry room to bring me an oversized, toasty towel straight from the dryer. I exchange it for a bottle of wine, with a bright plastered ribbon now ruined from the torrential _downpour_.

"Oh, this is wonderful, thank you," he smiles, "Here, let me get you to Sophie, she's just setting the table. I'm sure she could lend you her blow-dryer and a change of clothes."

"Thanks," I smile, shrugging my sopping jacket off and wrapping myself up in the towel. I'm ushered forth to the dining room, all the while taking in the drastic differences of my old home. In fact, it's not even _mine_ anymore. Everything is so bright and contemporary and gorgeous. I might as well be in a different borough.

Sophie, beautifully elegant Sophie, drops her cluttered silverware when she sees me, fusses about like a mother hen, and all but wrenches me up the stairs towards her bedroom, clucking apologies all the way.

"Sweetie, I'm going to buy you fifty umbrellas, and then we won't have this problem anymore, okay?"

So twenty minutes later, hair drawn back into a messy bun, toasty in Sophie's Northwestern hoodie, and a mug of peppermint tea between my palms, I'm finally a (relatively dry) happy camper, feeling severely underdressed in the Croft's living room.

"Sophie always wears dresses, don't worry about it," David smiles reassuringly, "You don't have to dress up for us."

"I think you look lovely," Sophie trills, finger-combing my hair, "And guess what? I made a freaking _huge_ Caesar salad, poached salmon, potato salad, and bruschetta!"

"Are we feeding an army?" I ask, grinning up at her.

She beams sarcastically, "Omgosh, you're so funny! _No_."

David snorts, pressing a kiss into his wife's hair, "Sophie's ridiculously protective of her dinner arrangements. So much so that she'll probably cry while _eating_ them."

"We should hold a mock-funeral," I wince.

"Perhaps, perhaps," Sophie sighs, straightening the skirt of her sundress, "David, help me season the chicken in the kitchen, will you?"

"_Chicken_, too?" I roll my eyes, "Soph, pizza would have been fine."

"That's a good one," she snorts, dragging David quickly from the room until I'm left alone in the living room, a space that used to be a bland, nothing room that spontaneously led to the garage. But now it's a very now living space, with rich, warm furniture and bright orange hues. It reminds me of the way my mother used to care for the house when she was still alive, and I smile at the thought, holding my mug of tea closer.

I'm inspecting a glass shelf lined with antique china pots, splattered with intricate crimson designs, when I hear the garage door being jostled at behind me. I wonder if David's gotten locked out or something, so I sprint over and unlatch it. Swinging it open however, proves difficult, especially when I nearly spill my tea all over this newcomer in pure shock.

Mostly because this newcomer is Fred Wentworth, who glances down at me, smiles, and walks inside.

I sputter something extremely unintelligible.

"Hello," he says uneasily, probably because I'm looking at him as if he's gone and sprouted two heads.

This really is inconvenient.

"Anne?" he leans forward, looking at me quizzically, "You okay?"

"Fine," I say quickly, leaning back and away from him, "I just wasn't, I didn't think _you_ would be--"

"I uh," he looks down at his feet quickly, "I've been staying here for about a week. Today's my last day before I have to head back. I have a deadline on Sunday."

"Oh," I mutter, "Visiting your sister, then?"

"That's the gist of it," Fred nods, glancing out the window briefly. It hits me that he's not really meeting my eye unless I'm the one speaking. His arms are straight by his side, and he looks _extremely_ uncomfortable with present company. I get the impression that he'd really have no objection to sprinting out of the room.

"Are you," I clear my throat, feeling awkward, "Are you staying for dinner then?" My face is warm for some reason. _Oh God, if I'm blushing, I'll be com_pletely_ mortified. _Damn it.

He nods, glancing at his watch indifferently, "Ben Harville's picking me up around midnight, most likely. I'll make dinner."

"Good!" I say, before I can stop myself, and then redden accordingly when he looks up. _Damn it._

Thankfully, Sophie enters the room and greets her brother again, asking him whether he found what he was looking for in the garage. I try to make eye contact with her, but I get the distinct impression that she's avoiding me. It doesn't make sense - why wouldn't she even bother telling me that her brother would be staying over?

But then Fred smiles at me when Sophie informs him of my rain escapades, and my stomach does really weird, wonky flips stomachs _shouldn't do_.

At which point I excuse myself to the bathroom, look at my blushing face in the mirror, and realize, kind of angrily, that I'm pretty much still in love with Fred Wentworth.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Ladies (probably no gents), a couple of points to share:

1. I know I told you I "rubbed out" Colin; I might have lied slightly, judging by the little blurb of dialogue in the beginning - But it was necessary!

2. Ah, I love Awkward!Anne Elliot&Frederick Wentworth - it feeds my inner fangirl.

3. I have about a mountain of homework (it's really making me bummed), but I chose to update this instead, it's been plaguing me all day.

4. It didn't help that I went and watched the '07 ITV version of _Persuasion_ on YouTube again (Not a favorite, but oh wow, Rupert Penry-Jones )

5. I'm rambling in list-format

6. I love you all, thanks for your kind words - Please read&review! (Expect an update next week, I'm assuming - I'm guessing there are two chapters of this left, give or take, and I've already begun the very last)


	18. Unfathomable

For some reason, events at the Crofts have stimulated my "Holy Hell, This is Beyond Awkward" scale to lurch ahead two or three notches since the Harvilles' party. It's pretty ridiculous. There is _no_ social butterflying, no heartfelt talk about Gerber baby food and new additions, or indifferent nostalgia like last time. Fred Wentworth and I are un_fathom_ably uncomfortable with each other. I don't know exactly what's changed. I mean, I have a few vague hypotheses, but even so - I am stranded in a state of emotional limbo.

And _okay_, so I might still be in love with my ex-boyfriend. Honestly, no big! I can survive the night without raising suspicion. I'm sure nobody will notice that I've been refusing to look at him - or that I lagged in dinner conversation. Or blushed like an _idiot_.

Fuck.

And just to confirm my belief that I've never experienced a more awkward encounter in my _life_ -- except perhaps, the morning I met him again at the Musgroves; oh and conception, but I don't remember that - Fred and I are not even _physically_ comfortable with the other's presence. After dishes are cleared, he stands to let me pass, in which I slide to the left to let _him_ pass - in which _he_ slides to the right simultaneously to let _me_ pass. This continues onward for another few seconds.

Repeat four times well into the next twenty minutes.

"Are you two doing tango next?" Sophie remarks dryly, sleeves rolled to the elbow as she scrubs soapy dishes.

Well, at least the table was beautiful; Sophie Croft has such remarkable hostess abilities. She's almost like a creation out of _The_ _Stepford Wives_, only you know, not mechanical - or Nicole Kidman. The food was excellent, even if conversation lagged. Maybe there wasn't enough wine. I feel responsible.

For the lack of conversation of course, not the wine.

I help clear the table, heaving the enormous, nearly finished salad bowl to the counter. Fred rolls his sleeves and pops a cucumber into his mouth quickly, attempting to do this discreetly. He doesn't look at me - actually, he barely looks at me all night. I only feel him looking at me when I'm distinctly looking somewhere else, which is just unsettling.

"_Forks_, Frederick, I'm pretty sure they were invented," Sophie narrows her eyes at him from over her shoulder.

"I'm not familiar," he smiles - not that I think that's adorable or anything.

"Such a child," his older sister sighs, clinking the silverware on its respective drying rack. David weaves around the island of the kitchen and steals a bell pepper from the bowl as well.

"I can't tell if you're being supportive or if you're actually hungry," Fred asks skeptically, eyes narrowed at his brother-in-law.

"Possibly both."

We collect silverware next, eco-friendly, bamboo encased utensils of course, as Sophie is in fact the ever elusive Earth Child. I decide to bring this up and prove that I actually have a semblance of a voice this evening.

"Flower child," Fred corrects, collecting the forks and knives, "Though it could be Earth Child - she may name her kid Meadow or Moonbeam or something ridiculously natural."

"Oh _wow_, Hippie jokes," Sophie retorts, "Original."

"I think she's angry," Fred mumbles, and I laugh despite myself, though he's not really watching. Still, I can't help but think that perhaps things are lightening up - maybe I can survive the evening; maybe there _was_ enough wine? I reach for a dirty dish beside him. But we both clutch it at the same time, so I let it go. Literally, _let it go_, so that it clatters to the floor in impossibly broken pieces. I slap both hands over my mouth. I think a squeak is emitted.

"Oh _crap_," I groan as Sophie shuffles forward, "I'm _so_ sorry, that was so stupid! I don't know why I did that--!"

"It's fine," Fred holds out a palm when I try to step forward, "Don't come closer, there are shards." He leans down forward on his knees, nimbly collecting the shattered pieces into his palm. "Paper bag, Soph?"

"Just a second," she dashes off to retrieve one from the pantry, simultaneously addressing me, "Don't worry about it Anne; it's just an accident."

I sigh, taking the paper bag from her. I bend over by Fred, who eyes me wearily and disapprovingly.

"Seriously, Anne, let Sophie - you're barefoot."

"I'm actually in socks," I argue, holding out the paper bag, "Now chuck 'em in."

So he does, and all is settled. That is until he accidentally cuts himself across the palm when he releases the last shard in haste. He doesn't notice at first, and I assume it's just a quick little nick firsthand.

This is of course before the stretch of skin fills quickly with blood. I stammer, "Fred, your _hand_."

"What?" he glances downward, "Oh," he clutches a paper towel from the corner of the table and presses it tightly against his palm, "Didn't even notice that," he glances up, "Probably because it's not deep."

"_Yeahuh_," I mumble, unable to tear my eyes away from the bloodied paper towel. I point a slightly wavering finger, "You're still, _it's_ still bleeding." The room feels extremely small all of a sudden.

"Give it a second," he shrugs, "Cuts need time to clot."

Thanks for that.

This is one of my problems. Actually, this is one of the reasons I couldn't stay with Louisa the night of her accident. This is why the waiting room, never the patient's, is one of my long-term best friends; I _cannot_ handle blood - healed scrapes? Sure. Gushing injuries, even of a small scale? _No_.

Fred attempts to hand me the paper bag, faltering, "Are you okay? You look really pale, Anne."

"Fine, I'm fine," I nod quickly, attempting to stand. He helps me up and temporarily takes the balled paper towel away from his palm again, giving me a glimpse of his hand. I feel _sick_ - so my body decides it doesn't feel like standing anymore. So I don't, and everything goes black.

* * *

"Is she waking up?"

"Possibly -- here, let me."

"-- got to be careful, okay?"

Well, I'm still on the floor when I come to. My head's in Sophie's lap and I feel warm pressure at my forehead. Then I realize that Fred's pressing a washcloth above my brow when I see his face hovering above mine, along with the Crofts'.

"This is mortifying," I mumble, clenching my eyes shut, "I fainted, didn't I?"

"Just a little," Sophie winces, smoothing my hair back, "I bet you were one of those Kindergarteners who vomited whenever your classmates got paper cuts?"

"Bingo," I murmur, counter-wincing because she _is_ painfully correct. I was an extremely sensitive child, emotionally and physically. There were a lot of instances of blown chunks, so to speak.

Fred shifts the cloth steadily, and I feel strange with everyone being so painstakingly attentive and blush.

"Don't be embarrassed," Fred says, looking abashed himself, "If I knew you were squeamish, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have been that expressive with it."

"I buy that," I laugh slightly, avoiding eye contact, "How's your hand?"

He brandishes his battle wound, a perfectly intact palm with an Elmo bandaid stretched securely in place, "I think it's pretty impressive - Sesame Street and all."

"Don't rag on my bandaids, okay?" Sophie murmurs quickly, "I like buying colorful things."

The air of discomfort is lifted, of course, when I actually am lead over to the family room to sit upright for a bit, so I'm grateful. Sophie sits by me and we turn the TV on, circulating about the room like a mismatched family of sorts. It would be strange if it weren't so pleasant.

"That was interesting," I murmur, and Sophie snorts in response. "I swear I'm not a drama queen - or a damsel. Or particularly melodramatic."

"What I don't understand," she rolls her eyes, exasperated, "Is why you're apologizing for losing consciousness. Don't you think you're a little ridiculous sometimes?"

"Do I really have to answer that?" I wince.

She pinches my cheek and sighs, "Oh, Anne. You're like the cooperative baby sister I never had."

"You never _had_ a sister," Fred points out from his standing position across the room, where he's eyeing the trinkets and souvenirs that decorate the fireplace. He smiles over his shoulder, and I glance down.

"That's what I said," Sophie dismisses him, waving her hand, "Anyway - Are you due back home soon? Should we phone your father?"

"She's in her twenties, Sophie," Dave grins, "I'm pretty sure she's not a child."

"Nobody's waiting up for me back home," I tell Sophie emphatically, "I promise."

But to my surprise, she looks pensive for a moment, "Nobody? Out of curiosity," her voice lowers a fraction, "What happened to that boy you were seeing--"

"I was never really _seeing_ him," I murmur, slightly embarrassed. I pick at the fringe of the cushion I hold, "We just hung out together. Anyway, nothing really happened. I wasn't interested."

"Oh," Sophie nods, grimacing, "Sorry."

"Don't be," I shrug, "I'm not."

Fred seems unchanged, but then again, he's facing his back to me. God, why am I even searching for a reaction? He shouldn't care.

I really hate that I want him to.

"Hey, what time is it?" I murmur out of curiosity, still unsure of how long I was out.

Sophie glances at her left wrist, "Eleven thirty."

"How long was I out for then?"

"About an hour," she smiles, "We even utilized smelling salts but it took forever for you to come to. And then the guys wouldn't let me when I wanted to move you to the sofa."

"We wanted to be careful," David assures.

"And I'm pretty sure citrus-scented Mr. Clean isn't smelling salts," Fred says for good measure, "But we can't be sure."

"Isn't that dangerous when inhaled?" I laugh, turning to his sister.

"Hence my reluctance to _tell_ you that I tried to use Mr. Clean," Sophie blinks, wincing. "It was a blonde moment that you never would have found out about if it weren't for that one."

"She had to know," Fred shrugs, grinning - a short silence settles around the room for a moment - so he glances up at the staircase, "You know, I should go get my bag. Ben should be due soon." But he doesn't really leave. He stays grounded and glances at the floor, as if mulling over something complicated.

"So soon?" I ask tentatively, not sure if I should have.

Fred shrugs and catches my eye, and I don't break this time - even when the stomach-flips come back full-tilt and even when I don't feel like I can really tear away from his brown eyes. He disappears upstairs, and I'm suddenly overtaken by some overwhelming sadness:

He's going to leave, and he will never know that I feel this way.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, there are two suitcases in the foyer, and Fred drags the last of his luggage, a computer bag, to the family room. By this time, the Crofts and I have settled on watching a film, and _Love Actually_ blares in the background

"Want to do some editing before Ben comes," he tells Sophie when she asks, hooking up his MacBook into the nearest outlet. I watch him while he works, kind of curious and interested. Even though he uses the laptop religiously, he's constantly scribbling out something into a notebook.

"By the way, can you call me when you get back home?" Sophie asks.

"My phone's only got one bar; call Ben's." He settles into silence, writing with concentration on his notepad. I don't bother looking away.

I want to tell him. I even open and close my mouth several times, but nothing comes out. I glance back into my lap stubbornly, feeling unbelievably torn. I don't want to be hurt - I don't want it; I couldn't possibly handle that.

_Maybe it just wasn't meant to be_, I think, just as Sophie sleepily rests her head on my shoulder and winds her arm in mine.

"I have such a crush on Liam Neeson," she says wistfully, and Dave delivers a surprised, disapproving glance from across the room. She lifts her head slightly, "You're my main man, David, there is no competition here." She then glances up at me when there is no response, "You're awfully quiet."

"Well," I say, shrugging off my feelings and that overwhelming muck that is my thoughts, "I did lose consciousness half an hour ago."

"Excuses, excuses, "Sophie sighs . After a minute or two, the doorbell chimes suddenly and she perks up, "Oh, that's probably Ben. It's not still raining, is it?"

"Nope," Dave informs her as he walks past to the foyer, "I'm afraid it was all reserved for Anne."

"Lucky me," I smile sheepishly, and Fred looks up at me for an instant - until Ben Harville is ushered into the room of course, looking a little road-weary and tired, but otherwise more or less unchanged. He extends a tired but friendly wave to all.

"Give me a second, Ben," Fred points to his screen, "I want to back up my files."

"Sure thing," he says, shrugging out of his jacket.

Sophie offers him a cup of tea, which he readily accepts, settling onto the sofa beside me when the Crofts disappear into the kitchen.

"How's Karen and the baby?" I ask Ben after awhile.

"Good, happy, healthy," he responds automatically, grinning, "We're pretty blessed." He glances at the television screen for a moment, as Bill Nighy's character delivers a string of expletives. "Oh, I've seen this movie."

"It's funny," I shrug, "Brit-comedy."

"Karen loves it," Ben smiles, "I'm pretty sure she's secretly a Hugh Grant groupie."

"Right," I laugh, picking out the fringe of the sofa cushion. I glance quickly at Fred, who wrenches a USB out of his laptop, attempting to finish his article up. He doesn't look very happy. I wonder if he's gotten attached to spending time here this week.

"So," Ben says, his voice lowering, "I take it you've heard, haven't you?"

"About what?" I ask, brow wrinkling. I'm suddenly reminded of Mary. However, Ben looks far from light gossip - he looks conflicted, like he's about to share something grave. And the lower octave to his voice doesn't make things any lighter. For some reason, I glance at Fred quickly.

"Jimmy Benwick and Louisa Musgrove," he says.

My breath releases, "Oh. Yes, I've heard about that."

"Ridiculous, isn't it?" Ben shakes his head, "I'm so disappointed."

I frown at him - I've heard shock as the resounding theme of this news, but flat-out disappointment? Perhaps it's an extreme I don't understand. Is Louisa Musgrove that unfavorable?

I voice my opinion, and he smiles thoughtfully, "I hear what you mean, Anne. It might be that I'm being extreme, but it's my honest opinion. I knew Sarah, Jimmy's fiancée very well before she passed away. I wanted him to move on, yes, but--"

"Nobody could replace her," I finish quietly.

"It's not _that_," he sighs, "Well, maybe - I don't think Sarah would have forgotten Jimmy this quickly. It's as if he doesn't even think about her anymore."

"You don't know that, Ben," I murmur, "You can't possibly know what he's feeling."

Ben shrugs, "I guess not. I just didn't expect him to desert her memory so quickly like that, you know? So abruptly. It's like nobody else feels this way except me. I guess I thought Jimmy felt stronger about Sarah, and I didn't realize he wanted to let go so quickly. It's always been my opinion that man will always hold onto a love longer than a woman would. So much for that."

"You honestly think so?" I can't help smile at this slight absurdity.

"I take it you don't, then?" he raises an eyebrow, smiling in response. There is still a heavy weight to his mood though, and I sigh.

"I'm not saying men are unaffected," I look down for a moment, plucking continuously at the cushion, "But women? I hardly think we forget quickly. If anything, we hold onto things for so long until they just form calluses. It's painful, and it might be forgotten for a little while, but it's always there." My mood has plummeted with the choice of topic, and it shows in my tone.

A sharp noise and a clatter interrupts the stillness of the room for a moment (_Love Actually_'s credits are rolling quietly), and Ben and I both glance up, startled - but it's just that Fred's dropped his notebook and pen against the wooden flooring. For a second, I wonder if he's heard anything, and blush - but then I reconsider this; we're far too quiet.

"You almost through, Fred?" Ben asks.

"Just a moment," he murmurs back, scribbling something quickly, head bent forward so I can't read his face.

Ben turns back to me thoughtfully, "Anyway," he says voice lowering again as he gives a quick shrug, "I do see your point, honestly; but don't you think pop culture might interfere with your theory too?" he smiles gently.

"How so?" I ask.

"Well," he stretches, "There are thousands upon thousands of books, Anne, _songs_ devoted to a woman breaking a man's heart, consistently, over and over again - moving on, moving out. Then again, your argument to this will probably be that most of them were written by men."

"There you go," I smile, "That they were. And I'm not saying that men have it any easier, Ben, really I'm not. I just think that it's in their nature to adapt, to move on, and to even be inconstant. Maybe it's just a nature of a woman to hold onto things really tightly," I murmur, not eager to show the emotion behind these words, "And never let it go. Because I don't think we ever will."

Ben looks up, "But you don't think that men and women can love each other equally?"

"Of course I do," I say, frowning, "That's not my point. If there's love there, of course men and women can have the same amount of love for one another. All I'm really saying, the only characteristic I'm pinning to my own gender? I just think," I pause, my voice becoming quieter, "I just think we love the longest."

I couldn't say anything else for awhile, and I was thankful that Ben didn't reply immediately either. I felt weighed down, and that overwhelming sadness I felt earlier reentered the room. I couldn't stand it - it was suffocating.

Still, I knew I wouldn't tell Fred.

"I don't think we'll ever solve this argument," Ben smiles, squeezing my hand.

"I don't think we're meant to," I laugh, taking his hand.

"You're a good person, Anne," he nods meaningfully. Before I can thank him, Sophie enters the room and addresses him first about his commute over. In which I'm suddenly jolted into reality. Ben stands and sets his cooling cup of tea on the coffee table, stretching.

I watch as Fred rolls his wires and possessions into the last bag, stuffing his notebook into the front pocket quickly. He's moving so rapidly that I can't see his face for a long portion of time. When he slings the bag over his shoulder and disappears toward the foyer, Ben leans beside me and kisses me on the cheek, saying goodbye.

And I honestly feel that I don't have the power to walk over and see Fred out. My heart's in my throat, and I feel frazzled and confused and so lost. What was I expecting to happen anyway? I hear goodbyes and the latching and closing of the front door, and then the house is still, save for Sophie and David discussing something quietly on their way to the kitchen.

I wander over to the loveseat Fred sat by earlier, spotting scattered notes and bulleted points of his articles. I guess he must've left them behind - But before I can even steal a glimpse at the first sheet, I suddenly hear the door swinging open and frown, puzzled. _Fred_ reenters the living room quickly from the front hallway, calling over his shoulder to Sophie, "I left my flash drive."

I don't even have time to say anything; he approaches with ridiculous speed, barely looks at me, and draws out a separate, carefully folded sheet of paper from under the pile of loose notes. I blink in surprise, especially when he takes my hand and presses the note into my palm. It's so ludicrously discreet, so very _Sherlock Holmes_, that I would laugh if only his eyes weren't so serious. That scares me. And before I can even tell my brain to tell my mouth to open and say something, he's gone. This all has literally happened instantaneously.

It leaves me standing, in the dead center of the room, with a folded note that's making my heart do freaky palpitations. I glance up to see that David and Sophie are leaving the room toward the study - and seeing my opportunity, I take a seat, not breathing very evenly. The letter lies folded in my lap, taunting my curiosity until I reach a point of restlessness. First off, I can't believe Fred's written me a _letter_. It's so unlike any man, especially him, in the seas of emails and text messages. I'm blinded by how discreetly he's done this all - right under my nose, just up and written me a letter. I can't believe it - and when I unfold the sheet of paper, I can't help but smile through my nerves at its opening:

_Anne,_

_I can't believe I'm writing you a _letter_. It seems so archaic and not in a classic sense, just a corny one. But bear with me. I'm a ridiculously desperate man at this point - and you have to know why. I can't just sit here listening to your conversation (I'm still such an eavesdropping bastard, aren't I?) without having the smallest sense of hope from what you're saying. And God help me, I just can't bring myself to speak any other way. It's just impossible._

_Firstly, how could you, of all _people_, sit here with Ben Harville and claim that women actually love longer than men? How could you think it's so one-sided? How could you even _assume_ that every man is inconstant? That's unbelievably unfair - it's like you think we're programmed to forget._

_And we're _not_._

_Because here it is. Despite the fact that I've been an ignorant asshole, a user and a snob this entire summer, and the basic embodiment of a cold shithead - I've always loved you - I still love you. I haven't loved anybody _but_ you all this time. You're the only reason I'm in Kellynch to begin with, Anne, I had to see you. And yeah, I've been a jackass, I've pushed you away before, but I don't think I've ever been inconstant. I covered everything up with a lot of bullshit. I was still angry, and I was still hurt even four years later, and I didn't want you to see that. It's cold, hard pride - I'm not going to lie to you._

_I wanted to disprove your theory that a man can't love as long as a woman. Here's your real-life example. I don't know if it's too late, and it might be, and I have _no_ idea if you feel the same way (at this point, I'm just holding my breath) - but I do love you. So help me, I don't think I'll love anybody more for as long as I live._

_If you can get back to me at some point, I'd be very appreciative. Like you have _no_ idea. _

_-- Fred_

The lines blur at some point . I read it again. And again. And an additional fifteen times. By the time ten minutes lapse, my hands are trembling and the letter is so dog-eared it could rip. Sometimes I forget to breathe, right in around the third paragraph. I just flat-out forget, and my tongue is tied, and I don't really know whether to laugh at this ridiculously heart-wrenching scrap or cry. Actually, it comes out in the form of both. I'm thankful the Crofts are out of sight. I'm a _mess_.

Oh my God.

Oh my _God_.

How in the _hell_ can somebody compose themselves after reading something like this?

And then I have no time to think about it. I _can't_. Like a woman possessed, I dash into the study, letter in hand, wrench open the door and startle the living shit out of the Crofts.

"Give me Ben Harville's number."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I _would_ have split this up - but if you remember Chapter 23 of _Persuasion_ (my absolute favorite, thanks) it was all packed into one. And I didn't want to deprive anybody with a nasty cliffhanger. So consequentially, this took for_ever_ to write! But I'm so pleased. The "Letter Scene" is my very favorite, and I hope I did it some justice. Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!


	19. When Your Mind's Made Up

Road rage induced driving is no competitor for my emotional stupor driving. It's a little ridiculous – _actually_, what _is_ in fact ridiculous is the sheer speed I'm moving at. I'm barely even thinking. I haven't been thinking since I left Sophie's say (glancing at my watch) – three point seven minutes ago.

If I get an opportunity in the next hour or so to reflect on my brief, urgent conversation with the Crofts following my departure, I might find it comical and slightly embarrassing. I was extremely abrasive and demanding and eyebrows _were_ raised. Little information was shared. I could have sworn I saw the tiniest of smirks at the corner of Sophie's mouth when I rattled my excuse that I needed to deliver Fred his article notes – _"Cherished, significant infinitely important notes that could affect the course of his career!"_

Not really.

Aforementioned notes rest at the dashboard, and sometimes I have to lurch forward to keep them from slipping downward – oh by the way, _all_ of this whirls through my deliriously happy, extremely panicky and frenzied mind. All I think about is the street a few minutes from the bypass, where Ben Harville (through a shocked upper register) has agreed to meet me by a local rest stop.

I don't know how I'm going to get through this evening sans accident, by the way. It's a miracle so far. I gun the engine in a way that would make my cautious, permit-earned sixteen year-old self cringe and completely book it. I don't even know _what_ I'm going to say to him.

Firstly, the jilted ex in me is feeling (besides frazzled) a little miffed – Why, oh _why_ has he waited this long? And how could he have kept this from me? And what the _fuck_ were we doing all this time? The awkward, semi-fuming front and jealousy behind the scenes? Pride _sucks_ – look at how much we lost. But it still doesn't keep the grateful smile through my slightly tear-stricken face.

I can't believe I'm crying – I should cover that up before I arrive.

Skirting past the bypass, I take the wrong back street, swear loudly (beat the dashboard), pull a U-turn and somehow, completely intact, locate the rest stop we've negotiated on. I do hit a curb through. That's okay – because Ben's Audi is parked neatly just at the entrance of a TGI Friday's – emergency lights flickering. I lurch to a stop (nearly missing his bumper) and scramble out of the car, sheets of loose leaf in hand.

Fred's waiting just at the passenger side, and Ben slides out from the driver's seat.

"Uhm," he blinks, wincing with the only cherished emotion of the awkward third member of the party who has utterly no relevance in the matter at hand – and says, jutting a thumb back towards Friday's, "I'm going to grab a coffee." A pause, "Want any--?"

A mutual, resounding, "_No_." Ben raises an eyebrow, grins, and slips soundly towards the entrance, shuddering a bit from the cold wind. This leaves me standing across from Fred Wentworth, a good six or so feet apart, with a bundle of papers shoved between my folded arms – folded because I forgot to note that it is fucking _freezing_ outside, and I've dashed out in a hoodie, jeans and moccasins. None of that really matters though.

And none of us says anything for awhile. Fred's got his hands buried in his pockets, and I realize that he bears _no_ resemblance whatsoever to the indifferent, icy counterpart I met this summer. He's actually wincing slightly, _nervously_ – I take it he's showing a lot more vulnerability than he intends to. That, and his hair is almost comically ruffled from the wind. I resist the urge to tackle-hug him and smooth it back.

I _refuse_ to get choked up, by the way.

"Um," I sniff against my sleeve, really wishing I had been mindful enough to borrow a coat, "I have your notes." I hold them out lamely, blinking often. He arches an eyebrow at them and takes them silently, observing them for a moment.

"Thanks?"

"Welcome," I reply quickly.

There's a sufficient pause, an opening and closing of mouths on both behalves, and then a simultaneous address:

"Anne--"

"Look, I --"

Another dead silent pause; Fred raises a palm, "You go."

"No you," I flourish my hand.

"Honestly, I insist."

"Seriously," I shake my head, looking at my shoes, "All yours."

"You're the one who wanted to meet up," Fred attempts, brown eyes good-humored. He draws his arms in tighter, shivering slightly from the cold.

"_You're_ the one who wrote the letter!" I retort, pointing a finger. At this, he sobers and looks incredibly boyish again – terrified, slightly panicked, maybe anxious. My hand falls back at my side awkwardly, lost for words.

I open my mouth and close it abruptly. There's so much I want to say – God, I _hate_ this, it's the most ludicrously frustrating thing on the planet, to be armed with so many words and to not be able to utter anything. And then it hits.

Dear Lord, am I _crying_? Oh my God, I'm crying. _Damn_ it! I press the sleeve of my hoodie to my mouth.

Fred moves forward reluctantly, torn between touching my shoulder and taking a step back. He looks possibly more distressed than I've yet to see him: "Don't cry – Why are you crying?"

Like an idiot, I flail the notes at him.

"What the hell does _that_ mean?" Fred asks meaningfully, hands raised in frustration. After a second, he sighs heavily and winces, taking a step forward, "Anne, look – I'm sorry. I didn't realize it would upset you this much. I know I went out on a limb there," he glances downward for a moment, "But I respect any decision you'll make."

"You think I'm _upset_?" I gape, wide-eyed.

He pauses, "Aren't you? You seem like it."

I smack my palm to my forehead, sniffing quickly, "Why does everybody assume that girls cry because they've gotten their feelings hurt or they're upset or shit like that?"

Fred looks extremely confused, blinking, "Maybe because tears don't exactly signify euphoria? Are we actually discussing this?"

"I don't know," I laugh, mumbling, wiping my eyes, "_God_."

He raises a finger slowly, "You know – no time restraint or anything. But – that letter? Can I get a response? Possibly? You're so vague that I really don't know what's stopping me from beating my head against the glass door of Friday's," he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, "This is so frustrating, Anne."

"Well--" I pause.

Suddenly, he bends his knees and raises his fists in frustration and impatience again, saying angrily, "You don't know how agonizing it is to be standing here and not fucking _knowing_ the answer from the girl you fucking _love_, and --!"

This is pretty much when I cut him off. There's a flash, I'm pretty sure it's _me_, because in an instant, I practically tackle him to the bumper of Ben's car. Honestly, _tackle_ – fling my arms around his neck, bury my head in his shoulder, wrinkle his shirt. And once he recovers from shock (and regains the breath I knocked out of him), his arms wind around my waist and he holds me close and rests his head against mine. And despite the slight runny nose and the possibility of smudged eyeliner (I'm way too emotional to be embarrassed at this point), I've never felt this warm and complete since – _ever_. And I do promise to pay for dry cleaning.

"That's okay," he murmurs softly against my hair, holding me tightly.

"I really missed this!" I cry quietly, burying my face into his shoulder.

"Me too," he smiles as I step back slightly. Fred rests his hands on both sides of my face, wiping away tears haphazardly, his eyes impossibly bright and warm. His brow wrinkles, "I really hate that I've made you cry."

"You're not _supposed_ to," I laugh, wiping my face with the back of my sleeve.

"Good letter then?" he asks quietly, brushing his knuckles against my cheek. My arms are still around his neck. It's a familiar, long-forgotten place. And I love him. I _love_ him. It took me so long to get here.

And I suddenly feel like justifying myself.

"I didn't know, Fred," I mumble quickly, his words from the letter still fresh in my mind, "I didn't know. I mean, if I knew _obviously_, I would've said something. I'm pretty sure I would've. Seriously, I know what happened was awful and mortifying back then, but if I had _any_ idea that you, I just--" I sigh with frustration when my words slur together and step back, untangling myself from his arms, "God, I can't even form _sentences_!"

"That's fine," he says, smiles and raises my chin, leaning forward. I flinch backward immediately, palms raised.

"No, hear me out, you have to!"

He frowns thoughtfully and buries his hands in his pockets, head inclined perceptively, "I don't think you're really forming rational sentences yet, from current observation."

I roll my eyes and run a hand through my bangs in frustration, "If you would just _let_ me--"

"Can't we talk _later_?" he groans, pressing his palms against his eyes.

"_No_," my hands drop to my side, and I ask, "Wait, why are we arguing?"

His hands fall and he gives me an inquisitive look, "I really don't know."

I snort, passing a hand over my eyes, "Oh God, we're so messed up. _This_ is so messed up!"

"I've missed it," Fred murmurs, smile warm as he yanks me forward and holds me close. And I know, I know, corny as it seems – It just feels _right_. Puzzle pieces. It feels like I've been gone from this nook for awhile. And it's like home.

It still doesn't really stop me from blushing though, _ridiculously_. He kisses me and I smile against his mouth, my stomach commencing with those ever-wonky flips again. I lay my palm against the side of his face and kiss him back – again. Routinely. Once or twice. Probably twice. I can't really remember. My mind is mush. You can't blame me. But it's not cold anymore – far from it.

"I'm going to go out on another limb and guess that you might still love me," Fred says slowly, "You can just nod; I know your speech patterns are a little skewered this evening."

"Yes," I laugh, rubbing the stubble on his cheek.

"That answer addresses which point, now?" he asks, voice deep.

"Both, actually."

He laughs, leaning forward to kiss me again before he sneaks a quick glance to entrance of Friday's and freezes, "I think Ben's coming back out."

"He's going to give us such shit about this," I smirk, pulling back, "And Sophie, oh _man_, she'll give me an earful."

Fred shifts his weight, eyes darting guiltily, "She uh, _knows_."

"Pardon?"

"Well, I had to get you alone _somehow_," he argues, raising his shoulders.

At this point, I'm gaping, wide-eyed – I point a finger accusingly and step backward, "Are you serious? This was all set _up_? You and the Crofts were in _cahoots_ together?"

"Does anybody still use the term 'cahoots'?" Fred asks, grinning. Then sobering, he takes a step closer, speaking earnestly with his hands raised objectively, "Look, I realize it was a little manipulative, but after Karen's, I was pretty sure you _hated_ me! And you were dating Ewing," his lip curls slightly, "How the hell was I supposed to talk to you alone?"

"Hm," I flip my palm, "Fred Wentworth, _telephone_ -- have you met? You call. You _explain_. You speak. You meet _up_."

"You wouldn't have met up with me," he says quietly, looking a little wounded.

And then I realize that he's absolutely right. Before Sophie's, I was so convinced I didn't want to walk back into my past again. I was so ridiculously fearful of getting hurt – of even admitting to myself that I still had feelings for him.

"Never mind," I shake my head, "It's not important. It's what got me here in the first place. I'm grateful. I love you."

His face lights up and he grins widely, yanking me forward into an embrace again. I laugh and he places his palms on both sides of my face, brushing his thumb against my lower lip. "I love you too," he murmurs, holding me with an astounding amount of tenderness, "I'm really thankful I didn't lose you twice." A beat, a sniffle, and then he looks at me seriously, "Please don't cry."

"You can't just _say_ things like that and expect me not to cry," I mutter feebly, "I'm a _girl!_ It's how we're programmed -- Drop it."

So he does, and grins, and I kiss him again. It's bliss.

Until Ben emerges and does, according to our dual prediction, give us shit on the subject. Ex_treme_ly. Phone calls are hastily made on his behalf, as well as applause, and a couple of wolf whistles – all from one man, remarkably.

"Thank you, God – life is restored!" Ben raises his arms theatrically to the heavens, grinning from ear to ear. He then turns seriously to us both, "It was becoming ridiculous, you know. We meddling bystanders really need things to speed up next time. The sexual tension was driving us crazy; you two are unbelievably slow."

"Thanks, Ben."

"Sure thing," he beams, "Now can we fucking stop _standing around_? Let's get back to Sophie's – my ass is frozen."

**Author's Note:** Chapter title is the name of a song from the lovely Glen Hansard. An epilogue is under works. :) Though, I have to throw in my own personal snaps and whoops of joy for my last official chapter here. It's been a wonderful experience writing this, and I can't thank you guys enough for being such wonderful readers and reviewers. One more to go. Please read and review!


	20. Epilogue

"Would you hold _still_--?"

"I'm trying! Is this tie _that_ complicated? It lasted through the ceremony well, why won't it now?"

"Only because you're fidgeting like a squirrel on _crack_." A huff.

"That's graphic, thanks, I really enjoy being compared to rodents on drugs."

"I didn't mean it in a bad way."

"That can be taken in a _good_ way?"

"Naturally - hand me my bouquet?"

"Fine."

Scowling, he hands me the square bouquet and I grin, dusting off his lapels gingerly. He looks quite dashing in a tuxedo, but who am I to really let on and compliment him? Blasphemous. Instead, I peck him on the cheek and push him aside gently to examine my own reflection.

I usually hate bridesmaid dresses, really, I do. They are monstrous contraptions designed to steadily draw the eye away from any lingering woman and onto that great white spotlight that is the bride. But Kay Ascot nee Smith has taken pity on us poor souls - especially her maid-of-honor - and has chosen a flattering cut and a deep, violet jewel tone.

It really doesn't seem to bother many that I'm adjusting my boyfriend's wardrobe in the middle of the lavatory of the Church either - the ladies' lavatory to boot. It does wonders for _his_ pride. It also doesn't help that I've accidentally spritzed him with perfume in filtering through the junk in my satchel, and now he's sitting like a wounded toddler on the countertop by the sink.

Suddenly Mary enters the restroom quickly, looks up for a moment, squeaks and flinches backward. Fred winces - actually, I'm pretty sure we're wearing identical expressions, and there's a sufficient pause before anybody says something.

"Hello," Mary purses her lips, glancing between us. I still fail at my attempt to stifle a smile - I know how strange it is for her. I can recall the phone conversation I had with her a week after our reunion, with perfect clarity:

_"You mean to tell me, that _Fred Wentworth_ was your great love in college, who we _housed_ him this summer, who we encouraged rampant flirting with Louisa and mortification on your part?" a breath, "And you didn't _say_ anything?"_

_"Yep, you've got it."_

_"What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?!"_

It's been amusing, to say the least, ever since, to see the Musgroves tiptoe quietly past and avert eyes gingerly. Charlie's been one of the most entertaining encounters. He was the supreme member of that family who thought that Mary was literally joking about Fred and me. It needed several explanations and a couple demanding phonecalls. Now he's cool.

The Musgrove twins, Hannah and Louisa, I've managed to avoid these past couple months, but I hear both are doing splendidly at their own respective universities. It never lasted with Jimmy Benwick, unfortunately. But need not despair - he's been pretty chummy with a fellow journalist for the last couple of months, and Louisa's been scoping out the college scene.

Hannah Musgrove and Chase Hayes are still together - I suppose Lou's meddling did _someone_ some good.

Mary slings her purse quietly over her shoulder and shuffles towards the mirror, eyeing Fred wearily, "Any particular reason he's sitting on the countertop?" she pauses, "In the women's restroom?"

"It smells better in here."

"He's having trouble with his tie," I sigh, tightening it a bit. He winces and I apologize, but he just smiles quietly.

Mary's smirks knowingly at us, withdrawing a tube of mascara from her purse, "Do you guys need a ride to the reception?"

"We're ditching the reception," Fred coughs into his fist briefly, head bent.

Mary casts me a disapproving glance, "You're a bridesmaid!"

"So are you!"

"Only out of limited resources," she retorts, rolling her eyes, "Does Kay know?"

"There are two hundred and seventy people at that reception," I shrug, "What's one missing bridesmaid and her date?"

And my darling little sister, trying desperately not to judge us, weakens under our scrutiny and slumps her shoulders, "Fine. Have fun."

I beam at her and launch in for a hug, just as the door swings open again and Cathy Russell - slightly ashen at the observation of present company - lingers, unsure of her next movement and thoroughly surprised.

"Well this is an awkward!fest if I ever saw one," Fred murmurs, and I elbow him lightly.

"Everything okay?" she asks sweetly, looking at Fred, glancing down, and looking back up with a slight blush, "I never saw you three leave for the reception."

"We'll be there soon, Cathy," Mary informs her, "Is Charlie still lingering out there?"

"Yes - but your father and sister are long gone."

"_Good_," Mary and I mutter in unison, make eye-contact, and snort accordingly.

Cathy purses her lips, clears her throat strangely and dismisses herself.

"You weren't glaring at her, were you?" I ask Fred, pivoting my hands on my hips. He is all innocence, however, dark eyes wide.

"I was politeness personified, ask your younger sister."

"Was he?" I ask Mary.

She shrugs, "I think so - Cathy just dies a little inside every time she sees you two together. Consider it a slap in the face."

"A good one," Fred murmurs, "She needs it, it'll build character."

"Be nice."

"I'll try."

Needless to say, the first time I dragged a (extremely grumbling) Fred back to my family's apartment, only to be met by three pairs of raised eyebrows (Cathy's, my father's, and Elizabeth's) the result wasn't exactly a pretty one. Elizabeth was surprised but relatively indifferent. My father wasn't pleased but fully aware of the fact that I couldn't give a shit about his opinion.

Of course, his opinion was duly elevated once reminded of Fred's successful financial situation - but this doesn't really matter, my father is still a shallow twit. I wouldn't need his approval to love the man that I love.

Cathy? It was brutal all in silence and disapproving glances. Actually, it was just difficult informing her that I _wouldn't_ be taking her advice in the future - that I was happy with my _own_ choices. Of course, still smarting from my own rejection of her personal candidate, Colin, this was the figurative cherry on her cake. But this simmered eventually. She's a pretty reasonable woman when you get down to it. She responds well when you make it clear you've become resistant to bullshit and being commandeered.

Fred, understandably, still holds her in negative favor. But this is slowly mending. I've made it crystal clear that I cannot cut her out of my life. She has been the only maternal figure I've ever known - and while she's caused something that's hurt us both supremely - she always held good intentions.

Mary gathers her cosmetics and looks up at is inquisitively as Fred hops down from the counter and picks a dust particle from the strap of my dress.

"So," she grins coyly, "You two are invited to Uppercross next summer, of course. Let's just hope that things will be a little bit different."

Fred shakes his head and smiles good-humoredly, "I'll consider it if Anne will."

"No promises," I tell Mary, and she laughs. I kiss her briefly on the cheek and she excuses herself from the bathroom, the door closing snugly behind her.

Fred smiles at me thoughtfully, "I'll really have to pass on her invitation, Anne, sorry. I've seen enough Musgroves to last me three summers."

"We haven't even started winter holidays," I laugh, taking his arm. We walk out into the lobby of the church, scattered wedding programs littered along the tabletops. He takes my coat from its proper hook and helps me into it, and we walk out into the chilly evening air.

The sun is setting, and the sky is dappled with oranges and smoldering pinks as we take a seat together at one of the benches nearby the stone pathway that leads onto the street, not exactly eager to leave just yet. It's quiet and peaceful here - alone anyway.

"So," I stretch my arms, smiling quietly at him, "What now?"

He shrugs, "I don't know," he rubs his chin thoughtfully, "I'll probably take cab home - call Sophie, shave, turn on the television. Gather some paperwork for Monday."

"That's not really what I meant," I smirk.

"Sure it is," he frowns thoughtfully, "You could come with me," he adds softly after a second, "To live, even."

"In New _York_?" I balk.

"I know," Fred mock winces, "Ridiculously far, isn't it? It might as well be a third world country."

"I'm going to hit you."

"No you won't," he grins, dimples apparent.

"Do you really want me to move in with you?"

"Anne, I don't ever want to be _away_ from you," he clarifies, "How you could even ask me this is incredible." I'm silent for a moment, so he adds, "Only if you want to, of course."

"Of course I do," I murmur, nestling my face into the collar of my coat, "I just don't want to fuck things up."

"We won't," Fred says quietly, taking my hand. I rest my head against his shoulder and he brushes my bangs out of my eyes. "You know what - Let's take things slowly."

"Like we have been, you mean?" I grin.

"Okay, maybe a fraction of an inch faster," he laughs.

I sigh, smiling, and glance back towards the church, "So - You want to do _that_ someday?"

He follows my glance toward the entrance of the church, and smiles, "What, _that_ that?"

"Pretty much."

"That little, itty bitty thing they call _marriage_?"

"Yep."

He pauses and then grins down at me, "Let's do it now!"

"What? _No_. You're neurotic. What will Sophie think?" I scoff, thwacking his arm.

"I love that your first thought is my sister's reaction," he adds conversationally, "Instead of, you know, time complications and financial issues and other things you usually obsess about."

"I do not obsess," I mumble, laughing. He wraps his arm around me and I nestle closer.

"I would marry you now, for the record," he murmurs against my cheek, "I just know that the feminist in you would run away screaming that it's way too early and that you don't want to 'fuck things up.'"

I can't help but grin at this, "She _so_ would - are you going to persuade me to put a time restraint on this? An engagement by so and so months?"

"I can't persuade you to do anything, Anne, you're your own person," he says.

After a moment, I reply, "I always was, you know -- contrary to popular belief."

"I know," he murmurs, smiling crookedly, "In a way, I think you were meant to take Cathy's advice those years ago - you were meant to be persuaded so we could reunite, bitch constantly and then realize that we still loved each other. It might have made it stronger, but maybe I'm being way too analytical."

"Insightful of you, _Freud_," I say, recycling one of his lines and he gives me a funny look.

"You don't think so?"

"No, I do," I argue quietly.

He laughs and shakes his head, staring off into the distance, "Somebody should write a story about this."

I give him a meaningful stare, "Danielle Steele, top contender?"

"Shut _up_," he laughs, catching me in a bear-hug. I laugh and try to pull away, but after awhile, I don't even feel like struggling. I sit beside him and watch as the sky darkens lazily, perfectly content.

"Let's go home?" Fred murmurs after awhile, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear.

I glance up at him and agree, smiling, "Let's."

---

**Author's Note:** Wow, I can finally tick that box that says 'Completed'! Oh, joy of joys - I've never completed a story until now. Thank you guys so much for pulling me through this, it's been such a great journey as a writer to develop this story and see how other writers and readers reacted. You all have been so wonderful and supportive and I can't thank you enough. I'm also indebted to the absolutely magnificent Miss Austen, whose novels inspire me to write in general. _Persuasion_'s always been a top favorite next to _Pride and Prejudice_, and I'm really happy that I had the opportunity to add my own spin to it.

So, as a last time with this story - please, please leave some final thoughts!

Take care and much love,

Ari


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